Stay
by kbrand5333
Summary: Ichabod moves in with Abbie, an arrangement mainly of convenience. However, they are too closely bonded to have a conventional roommate relationship. Nightmares need keeping at bay. Ichabod needs tutoring in the ways of the 21st century. And things start... happening... AU, mostly Abbie/Ichabod focused.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is rated M for a reason, yes. Katrina's nebulous existence will be dealt with, I promise. I do not write infidelity, even if the spouse is in another realm.**

"He can stay with me." The words are out of Lieutenant Abbie Mills' mouth before she realizes that she's said them.

Several sets of eyes, including the unsettlingly intelligent blue eyes of Ichabod Crane, lock on Lieutenant Mills' small frame.

"I mean… I've got an extra room, and… I'm the only one here who isn't completely freaked out by the guy," she stammers, trying to recover. Grasp for a reason why she's just volunteered to take on a roommate who is over 250 years old.

Problem is, he appears to be somewhere between 25 and 30. Problem is, he still doesn't seem to have a grasp on the modern world, and who could blame him? It's a good thing he's wickedly brilliant, or he'd undoubtedly be terrified.

Problem is, Abbie is just a tiny bit attracted to him.

"And it's not like he has any means to pay rent," she finishes. _Mental note: find a way to get Crane paid for his consulting work._

The department decided that they would no longer finance Crane's motel room, despite the fact that he's proven undeniably beneficial to solving these strange cases that seem to be cropping up with increasing frequency. Also, there have been complaints, both from the guests and the motel staff.

He'd broken a few items in his attempts to figure them out. The telephone. The remote control. The bathroom faucet.

He spooked the other guests with his antiquated manners and clothing, his unending questions (though most of those were directed at the poor rookie soul who drew the short straw and wound up guarding his door).

And then there was the screaming. Crane had nightmares. And the other guests tended to be less than sympathetic when the weird British guy screaming bloody murder in the next room woke them up at 2 a.m.

"I won't be an imposition?" Crane asks softly.

"No more than you already are," Abbie answers, smirking.

"Very well, then. Mills, you have a housemate," Captain Irving declares.

Abbie rolls her eyes. _As if I need his permission. He doesn't own my house, I do. And the way I see it, he should be thanking me, not granting me his blessing._

"Come on," she says, plucking Crane's sleeve, "let's go get your things."

"Um, I don't really have any… things…" he says, following behind her. She's a full foot shorter than he is, but she walks incredibly fast. Still, it doesn't take him long to catch up.

"There's nothing in the room you'd like to retrieve?" she asks, stopping suddenly. He almost falls over her.

"Sorry," he apologizes. "Well, yes, just those few toiletries you bought me when I first arrived. Woke up. Again, thank you for those."

"You've thanked me six times for that stuff, I got it," she chuckles, climbing into her squad car. He climbs into the passenger seat. "I think we'll need to go shopping at some point. At least get you some new clothes; aren't you tired of wearing that same outfit? You've been wearing it for, like, three weeks straight."

"It's comforting having _something_ of my old life to cling to. Well, it was. I think I would like some other garments, yes," he finally decides. Then he looks at her. "Can we go to Wal-Mart, perhaps? I should very much like to see that place. It looks like an amazing marketplace."

Abbie laughs, pulling into the motel parking lot. The image of Ichabod Crane in Wal-Mart is just too good. "How do you know about Wal-Mart?"

"Television. Fascinating thing, that. Do you know that there are washing powders that can remove any stain, no matter how set in…"

"Crane," she interrupts him. "You can't take commercials so seriously."

"Why ever not? Surely they aren't lying. Not on a medium that is so readily accessible to the general public!"

_Oh, dear, he's getting all righteous now. This is the "Ten percent levy on baked goods" issue all over again…_

"Well, let's just say that often things on television are… _bent_… to make things look a little better than they may actually be," she tries to explain.

"Why on earth would they do that?"

"To get people to buy their product or use their service," Abbie says with a shrug. "Now let's go get your things."

They walk up to his dank little room, one of those seedy motel rooms where everything seems stained a permanent shade of harvest gold because it hasn't been redecorated since 1978.

_I should have gotten him out of here sooner,_ Abbie realizes, looking around and realizing she's a bit afraid to touch anything.

She's seen too many crime scenes in just this sort of motel room.

Abbie waits while Ichabod takes the plastic bag she gave him from Walgreens and puts the toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant (_that_ was an interesting conversation), and comb back inside. She is initially surprised that he still has the bag, but when she thinks about it, she really shouldn't be. He comes from an era where things were not wasted. "Disposable" probably wasn't even a word, then.

He wanders into the bathroom, the closed part where the shower and toilet are, and she follows, leaning against the doorframe.

"Grab that little shampoo bottle," Abbie says, pointing.

"I cannot use your shampoo?" Crane asks, plucking up the bottle. It looks ridiculously small in his large hand. The shampoo v. soap conversation actually wasn't too bad, she recalls.

"No, you can't," she says.

He quirks his head at her, curious now. "No?"

"Crane, my hair is… different than yours. It needs different products. Here, touch it," she says, turning so her ponytail is facing him.

"Um," he hesitates.

"Go ahead."

He probes with one finger, then, emboldened, takes a lock and rubs it between his thumb and fingers.

"Hmm, yes, I see. The texture is much coarser. It _is_ very different." He rubs it for another moment and drops his hand.

"I'm going to try and get us to Wal-mart tonight, but in case we don't get there, you'll at least be able to use that," she says, tapping the bottle. "Have you got everything?"

"Yes, I think so," he says, dropping the little bottle into his bag.

"Yeah, we seriously need to get you some more things."


	2. Chapter 2

Captain Irving was actually kind enough to give Abbie the afternoon and evening off (barring any emergency demonic weirdness, in which case she is now the first person he calls) to get Ichabod moved and settled.

It's more time than they need, but she takes advantage of it. Once they get his little plastic bag of goodies unpacked at her house (took about ten seconds), Abbie realizes that while she wants to take him shopping, she has no idea what sizes he needs.

_Tape measure. I have one here somewhere._ She digs into her closet and finds her sewing kit. She's not much of a seamstress, but she can sew on a button or fix a blown hem. She finds the tape measure and brings it to the living room, where Ichabod is regarding an _Entertainment Weekly_ magazine with a puzzled scowl.

"I need to measure you," she says, "so we know what size clothing to buy. There aren't tailors or anything at the stores we're going to."

"Oh. All right," he says, tossing the magazine back on the table and standing.

"We'll start here," she says, reaching up to measure his neck. "Um, can you…?"

Crane kneels down, smiling when he realizes that she's having difficulty because of the marked difference in their heights.

"Thank you," she says. _Why is my voice so breathy? Why is it so warm in here?_

_ Get a grip, Girl. His wife may or may not be dead, and she's a witch._

"Sixteen and a half," she declares. Then she measures the arm length. "Thirty-four. You can stand up."

He does, and she decides to measure his chest, in case they get him a sport jacket or something.

"Excuse me," she whispers, snaking her arms around his torso to take the measurement, holding her breath as she does so. "Fourty-four," she declares. "I should be writing these down…"

"I've got them, Miss Mills," he says. His voice sounds a bit too soft, a bit too breathy as well.

_Of course he's got them. Eidetic memory, I think he said._

She wraps her arms around his body again to measure his waist.

He tries to remember to breathe.

"Thirty-four," she whispers. "Oh, dear," she says next.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"I need to measure your inseam… the inside of your leg for the pant – I mean, trouser length," she says, correcting herself so he understands that she's _not_ talking about undergarments.

He's been teaching her a few words as well. "Pants" means "underwear" to him, and while he's trying to adapt, she's trying to be mindful as well to make things easier for him.

"Ah," is all he can think to say.

"Um, hold this, end," she says, handing him the end of the tape measure. "Put it… yes, there," she exhales, relieved that he knows where _there_ is.

"Thirty-two," she says, gathering the tape measure up, nearly bolting away from him. "You, Mr. Crane, are what we call 'a tall drink of water,'" she adds, once there is distance enough to allow her to think clearly again.

"I've always been long and lean, even as a boy," he says, feeling a little less cloudy now as well.

"And I've always been short," she answers, smiling. "You hungry?"

"Famished," he says.

xXx

Over lunch at Subway (he's been obsessed since the first time Abbie brought him there. "All these choices! And how do they slice the meat so neatly and uniformly? I can really have _all_ these things for no additional cost? _This_ is the America I fought for!"), Abbie decides that perhaps dropping Yankee Doodle in the middle of Wal-mart straight out of the gate isn't the best idea. She should gradually work him up to the parade of humanity that is Wal-mart.

Talk about culture shock.

"I think… yes. I think we'll start at Kohl's, down in Yonkers, first," she says.

Crane looks up, disappointed. "Not Wal-mart?"

"We'll get there. Kohl's is better for clothing. And it's still reasonably priced, by today's standards. They always have good sales," she says. _And I have a Kohl's charge card I can dump it all on and worry about later._

"You do not… bargain? Um, haggle over prices?"

"Not in these places," she says.

"Curious," he muses, crunching on a potato chip like it is ambrosia from the gods. "These… chips… I cannot seem to get enough of them," he adds absently. She had noticed that he snapped up the bag rather quickly, obviously remembering them from last time.

"Well, control yourself or you'll get fat," she says, laughing.

"Oh, dear…" he laments. "Is that always the way? The things that taste the best are the least nutritious? First it was the doughnut holes, then that… decadent confection in the orange wrapper…"

"Peanut butter cup," she supplies.

"Good heavens, yes," he groans. It sounds almost erotic.

_I wonder if he sounds like that when… shut up, Abbie._

"And now this," he says, frowning at the yellow bag sadly.

"I didn't say you should _never_ eat them, Crane," she laughs. "Just… use moderation."

"Ah, now _that_ I can understand. And I should definitely consider using moderation next time we are here. I believe I chose poorly somewhere in here." He opens his sandwich and peers inside. "It feels like someone has set my tongue aflame," he mutters, looking for the culprit.

"It's probably the jalapeño peppers," she says. "Those. The round green ones."

He starts picking them out and placing them on the waxed paper sandwich wrapper. "Next time, I shall have to remember not to add those," he says. He cocks his head to the side. "Jalapeño," he repeats, the Mexican word sounding strange in his British mouth. "That's quite fun to say. Jalapeño."

Abbie laughs at him. "You'll learn what combinations you like."

Inside Kohl's, Abbie heads straight for the men's department. _You do not need anything. Crane needs clothes more than you do._ Abbie immediately starts looking at clothes while Ichabod stares around the store, marveling at everything, muttering under his breath occasionally.

"Ah, here we go," she says, rifling through the clearance rack, pulling out a pair of khakis his size. "Crane," she beckons him over. He's inspecting a mannequin, poking at it with his finger.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" he asks smoothly, stepping over.

"See this?" She points to the little 34x32 on the tag. "That's what you're looking for. See if you can find some things you like. I'm going to find you some jeans."

"Jeans?"

"Like these." She points to her jeans. "They're what most people wear for basic everyday clothes."

"Ah. I _do_ like these," he holds up the khakis she'd found already. They're basic cargo khakis.

"Well, hold onto those, and see what else you can find," she says, suddenly realizing that with his slender yet muscular build and slightly above-average height, he's going to look good in anything.

_Lucky shit._

Ichabod peruses the racks, wincing a little at the metallic scraping sound the hangers make on the metal bar. _So many choices. How do they get all these wonderful colors?_ He chooses two more pairs, and walks over to where he can just make out the top of Abbie's head.

"Miss Mills, what letter am I?" he calls, passing a shirt he thinks he likes.

"Letter?" she calls back.

"Yes, this shirt has no numbers. Am I 'M,' 'L,' 'S,' or…"

"Um, try 'XL.' That means 'Extra Large.' You might be a 'Large,' but I think with your height, we'd better go XL." She pauses a moment. "What did you find?" she asks, walking over with three pairs of jeans in her arms. She realizes that she's curious about his taste.

"Just a shirt," he says, holding it up. It's a navy blue tone-on-tone striped button-down shirt, long-sleeved.

_He has good taste_. "Nice," she nods, quickly checking the price. Not too bad.

"Should I be checking the price labels as well?" he asks, noticing her actions.

"I always do," she says. She doesn't want to tell him that police officers are never paid what they deserve. _No sense in making him feel guilty about all this._ "Just to make sure I'm getting a good deal, you know. Unfortunately, you'll have to learn what a 'good deal' is in today's prices," she sighs. "Grab that blue shirt."

Truth be told, the blue shirt is a little more expensive than she would like, but she can already picture him in it, and… _damn._

She gently guides him back to the clearance racks, this time for more shirts. He picks a few, she picks a few, and she leads him to the fitting rooms.

"What is this?" he asks.

"You can try the clothes on to make sure they fit to your liking before you buy them," she says.

"Wonderful! How clever and convenient," he declares.

Then realization hits Abbie square between the eyes. _Shit._ "Um, Crane, can I ask you a… delicate question?"

"Of course, Miss Mills. You may ask me anything, at any time," he smiles at her.

_I've heard that one before. Only he actually means it._ "Um, what do you have on beneath your trousers?"

"My undergarments," he says plainly.

"Oh, so you are covered, then," she says, relieved, but also realizing that he'll need some new ones. _Definitely a Wal-mart purchase._

"Of course, why?"

"Well, I had no idea if you wore underwear back then. And you can't go trying on clothes in a store without something covering your business," she says, waving her hand vaguely in the direction of his groin. From a safe distance. "We'll get you some new ones, though. At Wal-mart, not here. Prices are better."

"Very well. I shall try these on, then," he says, seemingly nonplussed by the topic. He gathers all the items in his arms and marches into the changing room.

"I'll be right out here if you, um, need help," she says.

"Thank you," he answers.

"I really like these jeans," he says, striding out of the changing room wearing _only_ the jeans. They are hanging far too attractively off of his hips. "Strong and durable, yet remarkably comfortable."

_Sweet Jesus._

_ Stop staring. Eyes up._

"Miss Mills?" he prompts.

"Huh? Oh. Yeah. Try a shirt with them," she suggests.

"Yes, of course," he says, blinking a little at her strange reaction. "Do these not look good?"

"They look very good," she says. "But sometimes it works better to try things on together…" she adds, grasping for an excuse now.

He shows her everything he tries, and her prediction holds. He looks good in everything. There are one or two pieces he decides he doesn't like, though, and they put them aside.

Abbie looks at his booted feet when he emerges from the dressing room with the clothes they've chosen. "We need to get you some shoes. I mean, the boots are hot and all, but they're not going to work with your new clothes," she says, dropping the clothes in a cart she brought over when he was putting his old clothes back on.

"Hot? Yes, I suppose they do get a trifle warm from time to time," he says, looking down at his feet.

"Oh, um, hot means… attractive," she says.

"Ah. We did not measure my feet, Miss Mills."

"I know. Shoe sizes are different. We're going to have to guess until we find the right one, unless they have one of those foot-measuring things, which I doubt."

"Foot measuring things? Curious."


	3. Chapter 3

"You ready for this, Crane?" she asks him outside Wal-mart. She's recovered from the forbidden thoughts railroading their way through her brain after they had determined his shoe size is a 12. _Combined with those long fingers…_

_ Stop it._

"Why does it say 'Juicy' on the back of that woman's trousers?" Crane asks.

Abbie looks. "I don't think I can explain it in any way that you can understand," she says. "That may happen a few times here."

"Why is that?" he asks.

"Because there are a lot of things _I _don't understand in there," she says. "But they have good prices on things, so that's why I shop here." She climbs out of the car, and he follows.

"What is that man wearing?" he asks, looking at a man striding through the parking lot in plaid flannel pajama bottoms and a Yankees t-shirt.

"Not so loud," Abbie says, tugging his sleeve. He follows her into the store. "Those were pajama pants. People have started wearing them out in public because they're comfortable. I bet you'll see it again, too. Ah, like right there." She points to a young woman in hot pink Hello Kitty pants.

"Dear God, but that is a bright color," he remarks.

Abbie grabs a cart. "Okay. Let's go. If you feel… moved to make a comment about something, do so quietly," she says. He nods.

Ichabod follows her through the store, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes darting everywhere. Occasionally she hears a "good heavens" or "oh my" escape his lips, and each time she endeavors to find the source.

The "good heavens" was a woman whose underwear was clearly visible through her clothes. The "oh my" was a young man with a bright purple Mohawk and a pierced nose.

To be fair, 75% of the people in the store look perfectly respectable. It's that other 25% that just grabs a person's attention.

"Let's see… soap and shampoo…"

"My goodness, why so many choices?" he asks, eyes roving up and down the aisle.

"Different people have different needs and preferences. You know, like how you can't use my shampoo." She reaches up and chooses a bodywash from the Dove for Men line, popping open the top and smelling it. "Hmm." She tries another. "Better," she declares. "Oh. Not that it's my call, sorry. Do you like the way this smells?" she asks, holding the bottle up.

He sniffs. "May I try the other?" She gives him the other. "You are right. This one is better," he says, pointing at the one she preferred.

Honestly, he doesn't care. _She liked that one, so that is the one to get,_ he finds himself thinking. His thoughts have been a little puzzling lately, causing him to start examining what the nature of his relationship with this pretty lieutenant is. Or should be. Or should not be. _And then there's Katrina_…

He follows her around the corner to the next aisle, where he sees an equally staggering array of shampoos.

This time, he doesn't comment.

Abbie turns and looks at him. "When did you last wash your hair?" she asks.

"Yesterday. Should I have done today as well? I've learned that people today bathe with much more frequency than they did 250 years ago…"

"That's what I'm trying to determine," she says, reaching a hesitant hand up. "May I?"

"I touched yours, so it seems only fair," he nods.

Abbie holds back a snort at his unintentional double entendre, taking a lock of his hair between her fingers.

_Goodness, it's soft,_ she thinks. _Like silk._

Crane's eyes close involuntarily at the feel of her fingers in his hair. _It's nothing improper; she's not really even touching me._

"I think you're fine," she whispers, suddenly dropping her hand. "Your hair is long enough that it doesn't feel like it needs a wash every day. It doesn't seem too oily, but you'll have to figure out what works best for you. What makes you feel best." She quickly turns to the shelf, a little too quickly, reaching for a bottle of 2-in-1, figuring that is a good bet for someone like him. _Keep things simple._

They move out of Health & Beauty, over towards the men's department. "Underwear and pajamas," Abbie mutters. "Crane," she calls, backtracking to retrieve him from where he's standing and pondering electric razors.

"Do you think I should shave my beard?" he asks absently, rubbing it with his hand.

_Yes. I bet it's scratchy. No. It looks pretty hot._ "That's up to you," she answers.

"What do _you_ think?" he asks. She stops and looks up at him.

_He really wants to know._ "I think it looks good," she declares. "It doesn't look antiquated or out of place, either. But if you want to try shaving it, we can get you some supplies."

"I think… not right now," he says, following her again. "Where are we going now—oh, my…"

They're walking past the women's lingerie section, and Crane is distracted by a very large, _very_ purple bra hanging on a display.

"That's a bra. It keeps the girls in place," Abbie says, trying to be casual about it.

"The girls? Oh. Right. So I presume you wear one, then?" His cheeks look slightly pink.

"Yes, Crane, all women do. Well, they should, anyway." She looks around quickly. _I know there has to be one around here somewhere. Come on, Wal-mart, don't let me down… aha…_ "Like her," she points to a woman a distance away who clearly didn't feel the need to suit up this morning. "She's not, and she _should._"

"Good heavens," he exclaims softly, looking back at the giant purple bra. His eyes flit involuntarily to Abbie's chest for just a second, then he pointedly looks away, his cheeks reddening further.

"They come in different sizes, obviously," she says, still keeping her tone light so as not to embarrass him further.

"Quite," he answers, his voice breaking a little on the single word. She watches as he looks anywhere except at her or the hundreds of brassieres hanging on racks right beside him.

Then he slips, and his eyes once again find their way to her chest for a moment. He clears his throat.

_I did _not_ just see his fingers flex at his side, as if he was imagining…_

"Um, socks," she mutters, quickly pushing the cart across the way to the men's department. She starts perusing the packages, intent on her task. They had found a pair of simple casual shoes for him at Kohl's, the kind that slip on with no laces, in brown leather, and a pair of sneakers. Abbie chooses a pack of white socks and a smaller pack of brown and black socks.

"Miss Mills, what is a thong?"

_Shoot me now._ "Nothing you're going to want to wear, trust me," she says, walking the short distance to where he is pondering underwear.

"You might like… these," she says, taking a pack of boxer briefs from the shelf.

"Those look quite similar to my current undergarment," he nods. "I like the stripes," he adds.

Abbie takes two packs containing three pairs each, size large, and drops them in the cart. She finds him some undershirts, a few pairs of pajamas (shorts and t-shirts, basically), and then they are on their way.

As they walk towards the registers, Abbie notices that no one stares at Crane here. Here, he's just another patron, just like that man with the back so hairy it looks like he has a sweater on under his muscle shirt and the woman carrying her screaming toddler towards the front of the store, furious, abandoning her half-full cart.

_Wal-mart: The great equalizer. Everyone's a freak at Wal-mart, so no one is._

"Lieutenant, what is this _Duck Dynasty_ I keep seeing everywhere? Why are these bearded men so popular? Why would a woman want their visages on their clothing?"

Abbie stops. "I wonder that same damn thing every time I'm in here," she says. "It's a strangely popular television show that I just do not understand."

"Oh, so they are not real people, then," he says. He looks relieved.

Their conversation about TV has not progressed to the category of Reality TV yet. _I can just picture it now: "But Miss Mills, why would I be interested in the activities of this Honey Boo-Boo person? I've never met her." Unfortunately, I won't have an answer for him because I don't get it, either._

She sighs. "No, they're real people. I'll explain later. Come on. Are you hungry?"

"I am usually hungry, Miss Mills," he says, following her into the line.

"We'll pick up some pizza on the way home," she says, pulling her phone out to call and get it ordered while they wait in line.

"Excellent. I liked pizza the last time I had it. Can we get some of those… breadsticks?"

"Sure," she says.

The teenaged boy ringing them up reeks of patchouli and has light brown matted dreadlocks tied in a bunch at the back of his head with a rubber band. Abbie notices Ichabod does his very best not to wrinkle his nose. Or stare.

"Why did his nameplate say 'Moonshine?'" Crane asks her when they are in the parking lot.

"Well, either his parents are as crazy as he is, or he's independently crazy and chose to change it, in which case his real name is probably something like Todd," Abbie says.

_A day of shopping with Ichabod Crane is rather tiring._

xXx

After their pizza dinner, she helps him put away his things in her guest room – now his room – and the bathroom.

"We'll get you some more stuff soon," she says, mentally tallying up what she's spent on him today. _I have _got_ to get Irving to pay him or I'm going to go broke._

"Thank you, Lieutenant," he says softly. "I appreciate your generosity more than I can say. I only wish I had some way to repay you for all these things."

"It's all right. I was getting tired of seeing you in the same clothes all the time, anyway," she says, elbowing him in the ribs as she passes him, heading for the door. "I'm… actually going to talk to the Captain about getting you some compensation. I know that getting you a bank account or anything isn't a possibility, but… even if they cut the check to me and then I cash it and give it to you… something…" she trails off. _Taxes could be a problem. Maybe we can find a sympathetic lawyer. God, he'd need a social security number, an ID… but he doesn't even have a birth certificate…_

"Miss Mills?" Crane says, bringing her from her thoughts.

"Sorry. It's just that there's so much… bureaucracy to have to deal with to get you paid… it's giving me a headache just thinking about it," she chuckles.

"Oh, I am sorry for that," he apologizes. "I am trying my hardest not to be a bother."

"I know. It's not your fault; you didn't ask to be suspended in time," she sighs. "I'll talk to the Captain tomorrow and see what we can work out. It's actually not right that you're giving us all this help for free."

"It is my purpose for being here," he states simply.

"Not the point. You need money to survive in this era." She sighs again. "I'm going to go watch television for a bit. You can join me or not; up to you."

"I will join you shortly," he says.

She nods and leaves him, hearing the slight squeak of bedsprings as he sits heavily on the bed.

_I guess he's worn out, too._

After a detour into her own room, she walks out to the living room and switches the television on, flipping channels until she finds something mindless and mild enough. Something that won't feed any nightmares.

_Food network. That will do nicely._

Ten minutes later, Crane come striding out in his pajama shorts and a soft gray t-shirt, his old socks hanging unevenly on his ankles.

_He has nice legs._

"Well?" he holds his arms out at his sides, waiting for her assessment. She notices he's also removed the leather band holding the top half of his hair back.

"Comfortable?" she asks, smiling, not answering his question. She doesn't want to slip and tell him he looks hot in his jammies.

"Extraordinarily," he says. "Textiles have advanced significantly in 250 years." He sits on the couch, on the other end, as far away from her as possible. As if he needs the distance for some reason.

"Those look soft," he says after a few minutes, pointing at the fuzzy pants she's changed into. They're black with lime green and turquoise polka dots.

_Has he been staring at me this whole time? I think he has._

"They are," she says, sticking her leg out. He touches the soft material, down near the hem, gingerly at first.

"Oh…" he breathes, touching it more, "I can see why you like these." He runs his whole hand over the fabric, his long fingers luxuriating in the softness. "Oh. I beg your pardon," he exclaims after a moment, jerking his hand away like he's been burned.

"It's fine," she says softly, moving her leg back to her side of the couch.

He finally turns his attention to the television. "What is this? You watch other people cook?"

"Um, yeah. A person can get some good ideas from these shows, actually. This is called _Chopped._ It's actually a cooking competition."

"Competitive cooking. Interesting," he mutters.

Five minutes later, he is entranced.

**A/N: I promise I'm not hating on Wal-mart. I seriously love Wal-mart.**


	4. Chapter 4

Abbie starts nodding off on the couch before the end of the second episode of _Chopped_.

"I'm going to bed, Crane. You can stay up or not, but I'm beat. Good night," she says, standing and heading to her room.

"Good night, Miss Mills," he says, appearing to stay put.

Ten minutes later, Abbie steps out of the bathroom, having finished her nightly ablutions, and runs smack into Crane's solid chest.

"Oh! Pardon me, Lieutenant, I… um… oh, dear…" Crane stammers uncomfortably, looking anywhere except at Abbie.

"It's all right, it was an accident," Abbie says. She's learned that when flustered, he retreats to his default setting of extreme politeness. She also remembers how she caught him fleetingly checking out her chest in Wal-mart this afternoon.

_He must be feeling guilty about that._

"Yes, well… I…" He clears his throat, still not looking at her.

"Something wrong?" she asks.

"Well, you're standing there in your underthings. It's not proper, and I shouldn't see you in this state of… undress," he blusters, looking at the wall.

_Definitely feeling guilty,_ she thinks, almost daring him to peek. "Crane, these aren't my underthings," she says. "These are my pajamas."

"But… they're so… small. I mean… I can see your _legs_, for heaven's sake," he says, finally peeking.

"Yes. You can see my legs, just like I can see yours. That's allowed now. And you'll be seeing them a lot if you live here. This is how I sleep just about every night. It's just shorts and a tank top," she says, holding her arms out for a second before they drop to her sides again.

"Oh, dear," he says, almost to himself. "What happened to those wonderful fuzzy trousers you were wearing earlier?"

"I just wear those around the house. But they're too warm for me to sleep in," she says. _This is getting ridiculous._ "Crane, look at me. You're going to have to at some point."

He finally does. "But… it's nearly winter. Don't you get cold?" he asks, his eyes lingering on her bare shoulder for just a moment before moving down her arm.

_I'm feeling warmer now that you're looking,_ she realizes. "No, I actually get, um, warm, when I sleep, usually," she says softly, suddenly wishing she hadn't told him to look at her.

"Oh," he says, just as softly. He looks down at the floor, still not comfortable seeing that much of her skin. "Why are your toenails black? Are you ill?" he asks suddenly.

"No, that's nail polish," she says, laughing now. "Um, paint. Cosmetics, you know."

"What is its purpose?" he asks, even crouching down to look. _She has attractive feet,_ he notes. _Curious._

"There is none, really. That's the beauty of it. And it's not black, it's…"

"Dark purple, yes, I see that now," he says, brow furrowing. He hesitantly pokes the nail of her big toe with his finger. "Hmm."

"Crane, get up, please," she says. "Look: I'm a police officer. I spend my days trying to prove myself in a very male-dominated line of work. So I have one or two little… secrets, I guess, things I do in the privacy of my own home that are nothing but pointlessly feminine. Like painting my toenails. And wearing pink pajamas." She gestures to her current attire.

He stands while she talks, all the while giving her that studious gaze of his, the one he gets when he's mulling something over.

"I don't expect you to understand," she finally sighs.

"No, I understand perfectly. It's about balance," he says, dropping his gaze to her toes again.

"Yes," she says. _Stupid. Of course he understands._ "Sometimes, a girl just likes to feel pretty," she adds softly, shrugging.

"Don't you?" he asks. She looks up at him, and his eyes move from her toes to her face.

"Don't I what?" she asks, her voice suddenly a whisper, as if it is afraid to make a sound. _When did he get so close?_

"Feel… pretty," he clarifies, his blue eyes boring into her dark brown ones.

"I don't think about it, usually," she lies. He keeps staring, the arch of one eyebrow telling her he _knows_ she's lying. "No, I don't, most of the time," she finally relents.

"Pity," he says, his voice as soft as velvet. "Because you are. You're quite lovely. I thought it the moment I saw you."

Abbie says nothing, her breath catching in her throat as she gasps in surprise. _What the hell is happening here?_ "Thank you," she whispers finally. "I'm… going to go to my room now…"

He clears his throat again, and she blinks. The spell seems to have broken. "Um, good night, then, Miss Mills."

"Goodnight, Crane," she says, smiling a little at him. She takes two steps, then turns. "Wait, the moment you saw me, you thought I was a slave," she says, smirking at him.

"An _emancipated _one," he clarifies.

"Not much better," she says, cocking her head at him.

"I did think you were lovely, even so. I _was_ telling the truth just now," he says quietly, attempting a smile.

"I know you don't lie," she sighs. "Good night. And thank you again."

"Good night, Lieutenant. And thank _you_ for providing me lodgings. Sleep well," he says with a small nod.

"I'll try," she says. "You, too."

"I shall also try."

Crane watches Abbie walk to her room and close the door behind her. He ducks into the bathroom briefly, then retreats to his own room, across the hall from hers. He hears no sound from her room, but sees a faint light coming from the crack beneath the door.

As he stares at the light, it goes off. He heads into his room, closing the door softly behind him.

_It is a good room. Not terribly large, but definitely preferable to the motel. I do not require a lot of space anyway. Miss Mills has allowed me to stay with her out of the goodness of her heart._

_ I do not think she realizes how good a heart she has. That is a pity._ He pulls his 250-year-old socks off of his feet and places them in the laundry basket she's given him for his dirty clothes. He looks at his ancient clothing, so familiar, and wonders if they'll hold up to being laundered or if they'll disintegrate into shreds in those white machines sitting in a small room off of the kitchen.

He hums appreciatively as he slides between the sheets, noticing that they are much softer than those in the motel. And the motel sheets were already much softer than the ones he used in his former life.

_I could get used to this,_ he thinks, turning on his side, pulling the thick comforter up to his chin.

He drifts off to sleep to thoughts of fuzzy trousers, delicate toes painted purple, soft-looking brown shoulders, and Miss Mills' fingers in his hair.

xXx

Across the hall in her room, Abbie is wide awake again, Crane's words and tender demeanor towards her having rattled her into wakefulness. She hears him splashing around in the bathroom sink and wonders how much of a mess he's making.

_That's not terribly fair, Abbie. You know he's tidy. He just doesn't always have a grip on how things work now._

She sits up in bed, playing Angry Birds on her phone, waiting for her eyes to tire.

Then she hears him in the hallway, his footfalls remarkably soft for a man. The floorboards outside her door creak slightly, then there is silence.

_He's right outside._

She considers calling out to him, but holds her tongue. _Why? To what end? Do you want him to come in here and ravish you like you're a damsel from some trashy romance novel?_

_ Yes._

_ No._

_ NO._

Abbie reaches over and switches off her bedside lamp. The floorboards creak again, and she hears the faint click of his door closing.

_Go to sleep. Don't think about his intense, sexy blue eyes or the way his silken hair flops over his forehead. Don't think about his bare chest rising above those jeans or that damnable voice of his calling you lovely._

She slides down into bed, closing her eyes tightly, praying for sleep, but all she sees are Ichabod Crane's eyes.

xXx

Crane wakes up to the sound of screaming.

_Miss Mills!_

Eyes wide, his long limbs flail, trying desperately to untangle themselves from the blankets.

Another scream, and he is out the door, bolting across the hall and onto Abbie's bed.

"Miss Mills! Lieutenant! Wake up!" He's got her shoulders in his hands, shaking her gently. She struggles against him, punching, slapping. Fighting.

"No!" she screams again.

"Abigail!" he tries, wrapping his arms around her, pinning hers to her sides. Her blows manage to connect once or twice, and he is surprised at the power in her tiny body. "It's me, Ichabod… Crane… wake up, Miss Mills," he says, softer now, speaking in her ear.

She stills. "Crane?" she asks, her voice sleepy.

"Yes, it's me. You're safe, Lieutenant, I promise." He continues speaking softly, still holding her. She sags against him.

"Nightmare," she finally says.

"I gathered as much," he answers dryly.

"Shut up," she retorts.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks. _Let go of her._ His arms won't obey. She doesn't seem to be interested in moving, anyway.

"I don't remember it," she says, leaning her head back to look up at him.

He gazes down at her in the dark of her room, and can see wetness on her face from tears surely shed while she was still asleep. Their faces are close, close enough that all either of them would have to do is move two inches and their lips would meet.

Crane reaches up and wipes the tear stains from her cheek with his thumb. Slowly he loosens his grip on her. "Are you all right?" he asks.

"Yes, I think so," she says. "Thank you."

"You are most welcome," he answers, starting to move from the bed to go back to his room.

He feels her small, strong hand grip his wrist. "Stay," she whispers, barely audible. "Please."

"It isn't proper," he answers, feeling like a complete heel for refusing her request.

"The nightmare will come back if you leave, I know it." Her hand is still gripping his arm. Again, he's surprised at her strength.

"Miss Mills…" he says, still hedging.

"Please, Crane. Ichabod."

_She's never called me by my given name before._ It breaks his resolve, and he sits back down on the bed.

Abbie shifts back underneath the covers, moving to one side of the bed to make room for him, looking up at him expectantly.

She looks so innocent. Young. Frightened. Crane takes a deep breath and slides beneath the covers next to her, keeping close to the edge of the bed.

"Good night, Miss Mills," he whispers.

"Good night, Crane. Thank you for staying," she answers, reaching her hand over. She finds his hand beneath the covers and squeezes it once.

She starts to pull her hand away and he squeezes her hand in return, then twines their fingers together.

Sometime during the night, they drift together. The next morning, when Abbie wakes, she's wrapped securely in Crane's arms, her head on his shoulder.

_Oh, no. I need to get out of here. He'll be horrified. And I need to get up anyway._

She slides out of his embrace as gently as she can, the whole time thinking _Don't wake up, don't wake up, don't wake up._ She makes it out of the bed and into the bathroom, where she turns on the shower as hot as she can stand it.

_Maybe I should have it on cold._

As she slowly wakes up beneath the hot spray of the shower, she realizes that she hasn't slept that well in ages. Years.

xXx

Crane is awake and back in his own room when she emerges from the shower, wrapped in a purple bathrobe.

"Good morning, Miss Mills," he calls to her.

"Good morning," she answers, pausing in the doorway. _Do not mention the snuggling. He might not even know._

"Did the nightmares stay away?"

"Yes, thank you, they did. Did you sleep all right?"

"I slept very well," he nods.

"Apart from the interruption," she says, smiling a little guiltily.

"That was no trouble," he waves it off. "I am only happy I was here to help you."

"Yes, well, thank you again. Shower's free if you'd like to use it," she says, going back into her room.

"I think I will," he says, standing and heading to the bathroom.

A few minutes later, she hears him calling to her. "Lieutenant?"

_Oh, that's right, my shower is different than the motel._ She pads out to the bathroom, dressed but barefoot, to find him peeking out of the bathroom door.

"Are you decent?" she asks. "Like, covered?"

"Oh. Yes," he says, stepping aside.

He's got a towel wrapped around his waist. Abbie tries not to stare. "I assume you need to know how to work the shower?"

"Yes, please. I guess I was foolish to think that they were all the same," he chuckles.

"Not at all," she says. She shows him how the faucet works, how the one large handle in the center controls everything rather than the two knobs he had in the hotel.

"And this little piece pulls up for the shower," she finishes, turning around to find him looming over her, watching.

"I understand. Thank you," he says, stepping back.

That's when she notices the bruise on his shoulder.

_That wasn't there yesterday._

"Crane," she says quietly, "did… did I do that?" She points to the bruise.

He looks down. "Likely. You did put up quite the fight before you woke up," he says with a shrug. He doesn't seem troubled at all about it.

Abbie reaches up with her fist and matches it to the bruise. "Yes, that's my hand," she says. "I'm sorry."

"Miss Mills, no apologies are necessary. You were in the middle of a nightmare. For all you knew, I was the Horseman or Moloch or any one of a number of nameless, faceless demons we've encountered."

"I think you were a Hessian," she whispers. "Well, not _you,_ but in my dream—"

"In which case you should have struck harder," he interrupts, his face clouding for a moment before his eyes take on an impish gleam.

"I'll remember that next time," she says, smiling. "Enjoy your shower."


	5. Chapter 5

That night, it is Abbie who comes to Ichabod's aid. They'd spent all day and most of the night chasing down a dozen imps that found their way into Sleepy Hollow. It wasn't difficult figuring out _who_ let them in, but getting them to go away was no picnic.

Captain Irving's car is now totaled, the fountain in the town square is now rubble, and half of the windows of the library are now broken.

And then there's the fact that they swarmed Crane, covering him like locusts in a cornfield, making it impossible for Abbie to shoot them without hitting Crane.

They were forced to throw punches and gouge out beady, black eyes as well as other… vulnerable parts, trying to maim the foul creatures with their bare hands. And once Abbie managed to work the puzzle that fit the key into the chest that had originally contained them, Crane had to hang onto a nearby tree to avoid being sucked in as well.

In the end, they were both covered in sticky, dark green blood that smelled strongly of sulfur and decay. Crane earned several lacerations, and Abbie nearly broke a finger.

So after another set of showers, longer than the ones that morning, and some first aid, they collapsed into their beds.

Not surprisingly, it is Crane's turn for nightmares tonight.

His screams rip through the night, piercing Abbie straight through her heart. She sits bolt upright in bed.

"Crane!" she gasps, leaping out and reaching for her gun, hanging in its holster from her headboard.

_Like that's going to help._ She drops it on her bed and races across the hall just as another tortured scream splits the night.

She rushes into his room to see him writhing in his bed. No; thrashing, the sheets twisting around his long limbs, his gray t-shirt stuck to his chest with sweat.

_I can't do what he did for me last night. I'd wind up with more than a bruised shoulder_, she realizes, waiting until he stills enough.

His scream turns into a groan, and Abbie reaches for his hand, holding it between both of hers.

"Crane," she says softly, sitting on the edge of his bed and squeezing his hand, patting the back of it. "Crane, wake up." She lifts his hand, still sandwiched between her smaller ones, clasping it to her chest. "Crane. _Please_." Her voice breaks, growing desperate now.

She's just about to lean over and pat his cheek when his eyes snap open. He looks around frantically, obviously not remembering where he is. "What…?" is all he manages before he sees Abbie sitting there, her face a mask of fear. "Oh…"

"You were having a nightmare," she says. She hasn't released his hand yet.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks, sitting up slightly, his sleep-addled confusion replaced with worry for his partner.

"No," she says, smiling a little, unable to help herself. _It's so like him. I had almost forgotten what a gentleman was._ "Of course, I didn't try to physically subdue you the way you did me last night…" she says. "Oh." She suddenly remembers that she's still clutching his hand, and releases it gently.

"Ah. That was probably wise," he says. "Goodness, I'm soaked through." He looks down and notices his damp shirt.

"I'll get you another," Abbie says quietly, going to the chest of drawers against the wall. "Which drawer?"

"Second from the top," he answers, his voice just as soft. She can hear him pulling his shirt over his head. "Just a new shirt will suffice, thank you."

She passes him a clean one, black this time, her eyes briefly flitting to his chest, to the corded muscles there, to the scar on his left pectoral. His souvenir from the Horseman's axe.

"Thank you," he says.

"Was it the imps?" she asks, hovering, not wanting to sit back down but wanting to sit back down.

Crane nods, raking his hand through his hair, uncharacteristically rattled.

"You've bled through your bandage," she comments, noticing the large gauze pad she taped to his forearm three hours ago.

He looks. "It's fine," he says dismissively. "I had suffered much worse in the war."

"I'm sure you did, but I'm still going to change that dressing," she says, walking out of his room to the bathroom.

She returns with a new bandage, peroxide, antibiotic ointment, and some tape. He's pulling at the old tape, hissing and muttering crossly as the adhesive clings stubbornly to the dark hair on his arm. Judging by his language, he's oblivious to Abbie's return.

"What the bloody hell is this devilry? Why could she not just… tie the bandage on like civilized people… ow… bloody… oh, pardon me, Lieutenant." Her soft giggle snaps him out of his grumblings.

"May I switch on the light so I can see better?" she asks, indicating the small lamp on the bedside table.

"Yes, please, and if you know a way to remove this… sticky paper from my arm without removing every hair along with it, please do share."

"That's tape. It's supposed to be sticky," she says, sitting back down on the bed. "Here." She takes his arm and rests his hand on her knee.

His fingers twitch when they make contact with the soft skin of her knee, but Abbie ignores it. Well, she tries to, but she hears the soft intake of breath from Crane that she knows has nothing to do with tape sticking to the hair on his arm.

"It's better if you go fast," she says quietly, reaching for the corner of tape he's already loosened.

"Really?"

"Yes. On three," she says, biting her lower lip. "One…" she watches out of the corner of her eye as he works at mentally preparing himself, "two…"

She rips the bandage from his arm.

"Miss Mills!" he protests, raising his voice at her for the first time.

"Sorry," she says, "but if I had waited until 'three,' you would have worked yourself into a heart attack. And see? It's off." She drops the bloodied pad into the small trash can beside the bed.

"Oh. Still, that was deceitful. And unfair."

She looks at him. "Are you pouting?"

"I most certainly am not," he says, straightening his back. She bites back a smile as he carefully schools his features into a determined non-pout.

"Sorry," she apologizes again, bending her head to her task, dabbing the deep scratches on his arms with peroxide. Claw marks, actually. _He's lucky he wasn't bitten. Lord knows what that would have done._

She feels the tension in his arm while she works, feels him consciously keeping his fingers still on her knee. He is a statue, a stubborn, _proper_ pillar of politesse.

"They were back. Larger, more numerous," Crane says after a minute. "The imps," he adds.

"I'm sorry," she says, this time referring to his nightmare.

"It was… unsettling. I couldn't get away from them. They… they had you, as well," he adds softly.

_Unsettling_. Abbie knows that's probably his way of saying _terrifying._

"It was horrible to see, I can't imagine what it must have been from your side of things," she says, frowning, ignoring the elephant in the room, for the time being. The large, bright pink elephant wearing a sign over its back that reads _In That Dream He Was More Worried About You And You Know It__._ "Hold this, please," she says, and he holds the gauze pad in place so that she can tape it.

"Done," she declares, gathering up the supplies to take back to the bathroom. As she reaches the door, he speaks again.

"Are you coming back here?" he asks, his voice small. Lost. "I mean, will you?"

"Do you want me to come back here?" she asks the door, not looking back.

He doesn't answer right away. "Yes, please," he finally whispers.

Then it hits Abbie. _He is from an era where men did not admit weakness. They were not afraid. They were strong for their women._

_ Don't make a big deal of the fact that, for whatever reason, he needs you right now._

_ And you are not his woman._

"I'll be right back," she says, still not turning.

She returns a minute later, and he is still sitting up in bed. He's moved to the side to make room for her, just as she did for him the previous night in her bed.

"I'll get the light," she says, reaching for the lamp and switching it off.

She climbs into bed beside him, following his example from last night and staying close to the edge.

"Thank you for staying," he says.

"Just returning the favor," she says, trying for lightness and failing. _It sounds like I don't really want to be here._ "We're partners, right? We look after each other," she adds, attempting to soften the blow.

"Yes. We must protect one another, Miss Mills. Even in slumber, it seems."

"Good night, Crane," she whispers. _Even in slumber._ His words resonate through her for some reason. _When I had to enter the dream world, he immediately volunteered to accompany me, knowing I would tell him not to if he asked. He kept my nightmares from returning last night with just his presence. I can do the same for him._

"Good night, Miss Mills," he answers.

Two minutes later, Abbie feels herself being pulled into his arms, feels his slender-but-strong body spoon behind hers, feels his arm wrap around her waist.

_He's not asleep._

xXx

The next morning, Crane wakes first, still on his side, still spooned behind Abbie. They hadn't moved all night they were both so exhausted.

For the second night in a row, he slept better than he ever had.

_Apart from the 250 years in which I was being held in… what did Miss Mills call it again? Suspended animation._

He's afraid to move, not wanting to wake her. The clock reads 8:44, but they were up very late with the imps. Then there was the interruption from his nightmare. The captain hasn't rung looking for her, either.

_She's sleeping so peacefully. Nature is calling, however, so I am going to need to move soon._

Abbie shifts a little in her sleep and Crane freezes until she settles back in again, sighing as she does so.

He watches her, staring mostly at the top of her head, taking a few moments to examine his thoughts. His feelings.

_Feelings that you have no business having, Ichabod. Truthfully, you are still a married man._

_ Katrina may be lost to you forever. On the other hand, she may not be._

_ But until you know with complete certainty that you _are_ a widower, you will treat Miss Mills with nothing less than respect and nothing more than friendship._

_ Even though you've shared her bed for the past two nights._

_ But surely that is out of necessity. We have learned that nightmares are nothing to be trifled with._

_ She is your partner, your fellow Witness. The fact that she is a beautiful, intelligent woman, a woman unlike any you've ever met before cannot enter your thoughts, Ichabod._

"You're thinking too loudly back there," Abbie mumbles sleepily, scrunching deeper into the blankets but not away from Crane.

He jumps slightly, the surprise of her voice startling him from his thoughts. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was making any noise," he apologizes.

"You weren't," she says, her eyes still stubbornly closed. "But I can tell you're worrying over something."

"Katrina," he says. He immediately regrets it, but he finds that he can neither lie to nor keep things from Abbie. _Well, there is one thing that must remain hidden._

"Oh," she answers. "Did she visit?" she asks after a moment.

"No. I just… don't know…"

"I know," she says. "She's in limbo, right? Purgatory. Not dead, but not alive. It must be very hard for you."

"Yes," he says. _For several reasons._ "Um, excuse me, Miss Mills, but I must… ah…" he stammers over trying to tell her he has to pee, settling instead on just slipping out of bed, tucking her back in, and heading to the bathroom.

Abbie waits until he is out of the room to chuckle at his seemingly unflappable manners.

Then she peeks at the clock, wonders if Irving has been trying to reach her through her cell phone, and closes her eyes again. After a minute, she hears the shower turn on. She turns over, allowing herself the brief forbidden indulgence of inhaling his scent from his pillow.

_His possibly-not-dead wife is a witch. You are playing with fire, Girl._

xXx

The pattern continues for the next several nights; sometimes the nightmares are Abbie's, sometimes they are Crane's.

After a week of bed-hopping and interrupted slumber, Abbie waits for him in the hallway while he's finishing in the bathroom.

"Miss Mills?" he asks, puzzling at her standing there with her hands on her hips.

"This is stupid," she declares.

"What is?"

"Well," she pauses, momentarily losing her nerve. The Official Statement she had prepared flees at the sight of those bright blue eyes, always full of protective concern for her. She takes a deep breath and gathers her wits. "We always wind up together anyway. Why don't we just… start out that way and try for a full night's sleep? I mean, I know I would certainly welcome a night where _one _of us isn't screaming in terror…"

_Screaming for other reasons wouldn't be so bad, though…_

_ Shut. Up._

"That does make sense," he says, the corner of his lips twitching up into a slight smile. "Worth a try, anyway."

"Okay. Um, yes. So. I'm just going to go in here. I don't know if you were heading to bed or not yet, but…" she stammers. There is no avoiding the awkwardness of inviting a man into one's bed to do nothing but sleep.

Not just _a_ man; _this_ man.

"I was," he says. They regard one another a few seconds longer in the hallway. Abbie lingers, a little uncertainly, near her doorway, looking up at Crane, who seems to be waiting patiently for her to make the next move, his ramrod-straight posture never faltering.

"Okay," she finally says, turning and heading into her room.

He follows, closing the door behind him. The soft _click_ of the latch draws Abbie's eyes in the direction of the door, but she congratulates herself for not jumping.

_I feel like I'm about to leap out of my skin. But why? We're not _doing_ anything. Just sleeping. Protecting one another in slumber, the same as we've been doing for the past week._

_ Somehow it's different, though, starting out together. It feels more like a want instead of a need._

She lies down in bed and he slips in beside her. She switches off the lamp.

"Good night, Crane," she says. "Sleep well."

"Good night, Miss Mills. Please sleep well also."

Less than a minute later, she feels his hand reaching for her, pulling her against him, into his arms.

Her unbidden smile is hidden in the dark, but there is worry behind it. Abbie knows that she cannot truly allow herself to enjoy his embrace.

"You don't mind, do you?" he asks quietly.

"Don't mind what?"

"This," he squeezes her a little, demonstrating what he means.

"No, I don't mind," she says. _To be honest, I like it more than I should._

"I find your close proximity… comforting. Forgive me for not explaining myself earlier, but it is no accident that I've held you close every night."

_So he did know, even on that first night,_ she realizes. "Your proximity is comforting to me, too," she whispers. "I think that might be what keeps the nightmares away."

"Possible. Not a hypothesis I wish to test, however," he says.

"No, I think I'm good going on faith for this one," she chuckles.

"Good night, Lieutenant," he whispers. She can feel the warmth of his breath against her hair.

"Good night," she answers.

For the first time in longer than either of them can remember, they both sleep the entire night without waking.

For any reason.


	6. Chapter 6

A person never truly _knows_ another person until they live together.

Abbie learns that Crane has become a junkie for peanut butter ever since she shared that package of peanut butter cups with him several weeks ago. She recently caught him standing in the kitchen, open jar in one hand, spoon in the other, with a look of guilty surprise on his face. And peanut butter in his beard.

Crane learns that Abbie can sing. He puzzles at her choice of material, but he enjoys the sound of her voice nevertheless.

Crane learns that Abbie is an excellent cook, when she has the time. Abbie learns that Crane is an excellent eater.

Crane takes a little longer in the shower than what Abbie feels is necessary, but she lets it slide because a nice hot shower is still a novelty to him.

Abbie has too many bottles and tubes littering the bathroom for Crane's taste, but since he doesn't know exactly what they're all for (and because she lets him live there), he doesn't complain.

He also knows that they have something to do with the velvet-soft texture of her skin, of which he has grown very fond. If he was willing to admit that point, that is.

And then there is the evening when Abbie learns that Ichabod Crane is ticklish.

It actually started with ice cream. And fuzzy pants.

And, of course, Famine.

Another Horseman threatened to unleash his fury on Sleepy Hollow, much like Pestilence's attempt, and Abbie and Ichabod wound up spending two days dealing with a high school that at first thought they were dealing with an anorexia outbreak. _Trend_ might be a better word for it, as it is not contagious. Three dead teenagers (a Goth girl, an oboe player in the band, and a football player, none with any history of body issues or depression) and another trek through the forest later, Famine was vanquished the same as his predecessor.

So, naturally, Abbie needed ice cream. Drumsticks, specifically. The chocolate-chocolate-chocolate kind.

They had just gotten home. Crane plopped himself down on the sofa, his Revolutionary War-era frock coat still on (he was fine with the modern clothes, but insisted on keeping the coat. And he occasionally wears the boots as well, since Abbie did declare them "hot"). Abbie headed straight for the kitchen and the refrigerator, hoping.

She opens the freezer door. One carton of store-brand vanilla, almost empty.

"Shit," she mutters under her breath. _Why was I keeping three spoonfuls of ice cream? Oh, because I've been too busy keeping the damn world from ending._

"Did you say something, Miss Mills?" Crane asks.

She steps out and sees his head dropped back against the edge of the couch, his eyes closed.

"I did, but you don't want to know what it was," she answers.

"Cursing again, then," he mutters, not opening his eyes. Not asking, either. That was another thing he's learned about her.

"I was looking for ice cream, and I don't have any. Not enough, anyway," she frowns and grabs her keys.

"Oh," he answers. "Ice cream?"

"It's a dessert. I'm going to get some."

"Now? Surely you should rest, Lieutenant," he says, finally opening his eyes. His normally keen blue eyes are tinged with red from too many hours awake and not enough asleep.

"If I sit down, I'll never get up again and then I won't get the chocolate drumsticks I want."

_Chocolate… drumsticks…_ The two seemingly-unrelated words rattle around inside Crane's mind. He blinks at her.

"You can stay here, if you like," she says. She passes him the remote for the TV. "You remember how to use this?"

"Yes, of course," he says. "But I was wondering if I might have that other item… the iPad. I'd like to read some more, I think. I just started reading about Abraham Lincoln, and I'd very much like to continue."

"Sure, let me grab it," Abbie says, heading to her room where it's plugged into its charger.

She realizes that she didn't suggest he get some sleep. She also realizes that he didn't say he wanted to sleep.

_Because you won't be here to protect him._

"Here you go," she says, handing him the device. He's taken to it much more than her laptop. He likes being able to touch the screen and move the page around.

Crane is very tactile, she's learned.

Occasionally her mind runs away with that particular thought until her conscience throws a lasso out and pulls it back from the gutter.

She watches a moment, making sure he finds the page he's looking for before she leaves the house.

_"Not that I don't trust you, but you would probably have an aneurysm if I told you how much that thing costs, so don't go trying to take it apart or anything,"_ she had warned him when she first introduced him to the gadget.

Then she had to briefly explain what an aneurysm was.

"I'll be back soon. Do you need anything? There's a new jar of peanut butter in the cabinet."

"Ah, very good. Then, no."

"Take your coat off, Crane," she says, reaching down to squeeze his shoulder as she walks past. She finds the shoulder muscle beneath the coat to be surprisingly firm, thicker than she was expecting for one so lean.

"Hmm," he grunts noncommittally, and she sighs.

_He's gone. Absorbed. When I come home, he's still going to be sitting there in his coat._

xXx

"I bought you something at Wal-mart," she announces on her return, closing the door behind her. Locking it.

_Like that's going to keep out a demon._

"Crane…" she sighs. He's still sitting in his coat. She puts her bags down and marches over to him.

"Ah, Miss Mills," he looks up, smiling a little at the sight of his petite partner, standing there with her hand on her hips. "I like Mr. Lincoln a lot."

"I had a feeling you would," she says. "Unfortunately, I _also_ had a feeling that you'd still be sitting here in your damn coat when I came back."

He looks down at himself. "Oh."

"And I bought you a present."

"Oh," he says, brighter. "That wasn't necessary, Miss Mills," he says, setting the iPad aside and standing. He takes his coat off and goes to hang it in the closet.

Abbie likes that he's not a slob.

He finds her in the kitchen, bending down to put the Drumsticks into the freezer at the bottom of her fridge. "They were on sale. In the bag on the table," she says, trying not to make a big deal over it. They _were_ on sale, but the truth is, she couldn't resist getting them for him.

He opens the bag and pulls out a pair of soft pajama pants, fuzzy like the ones she has. They are bright blue with the Superman logo all over them.

"Oh…" he breathes, feeling them, rubbing the soft material between his long fingers. "Thank you, Miss Mills. They're… wonderful. But what do these 'S' symbols stand for?"

"Um, Superman," she says, chuckling. "He's a superhero. A fictional character with superhuman powers."

He cocks an eyebrow at her.

"Take that however you like," she shrugs. "I mainly bought them because they were soft and fuzzy and I was afraid that you were going to try to steal mine one day."

He laughs, still holding the pants. "Miss Mills, I could never get into your trousers."

Abbie coughs, choking on nothing. "Excuse me," she says, turning to get a drink of water. _I really need to teach him what a double entendre is before I wind up having a stroke._

"Are you all right?" he asks, his voice full of concern.

"Fine. Go try those on and then I'll introduce you to the world of ice cream," she says.

He smiles and heads back to his room. It's still his room, still where he does everything anyone does in their bedroom apart from sleeping.

Abbie follows, turning instead into her own room, where she finally sits, flopping down on her bed, allowing herself a moment of silence. Peace.

Then her eyes start to drift, and she sits up. _Change clothes. Ice cream._

"Miss Mills, you have my most heartfelt thanks," Crane announces, meeting her in the hallway.

"You are very welcome," she answers, smiling at him in the brightly-colored pajama bottoms and his gray t-shirt. She's also changed into comfortable clothes, and they're both ready for ice cream and a night in.

They're also both hoping they don't get a phone call from Irving. Neither speaks that hope for fear of jinxing it.

"Should we not have dinner first?" he asks, watching as she retrieves two items wrapped in shiny white paper from the box in the freezer.

"Life is short," she says. "And I'm feeling lazy tonight. Frozen pizza all right?"

"Yes, that's fine." He takes his ice cream from her. She's opened one end for him, since he continues to have difficulty with packaging.

Abbie preheats the oven and opens her Drumstick, crunching through the chocolate encapsulating the ice cream. "Mmm."

Crane watches her, transfixed. He still hasn't tried his. And now he is quite distracted watching Abbie enjoy hers, watching the way her eyes close blissfully when she takes a bite, how her small pink tongue reaches forward to lick the exposed ice cream.

"What do you think?" she asks.

_Beautiful_ is the first word that leaps to Crane's mind. "Oh," he mutters, taking a bite. "Oh, it's cold!" he exclaims. "But… so good…" his voice lowers to a rumble, similar to the time he first tried a doughnut hole. But better.

He takes another bite, then another.

"Crane…" she warns, but it's too late.

"Aahh…" he groans, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. "What…?"  
"You have to eat ice cream slowly," she says. "Otherwise the coldness does… that," she waves her hand in the direction of his head. "It's called brain freeze."

"Bloody hell," he finally says. "Excuse me, Lieutenant."

She smirks, secretly loving that he feels the need to apologize for cursing in front of her, though to her American ears, it's not even a curse. Not to mention she's said far worse in front of him.

The oven beeps, indicating that it's finished preheating. "Hold this," she says, handing him her cone while she puts the pizza in the oven.

She sets the timer and they return to the living room to finish their cones.

Crane decides that he very much likes ice cream. Abbie decides that she very much likes watching Crane discover new things, _especially_ things he likes. His childlike innocence in discovery is both fascinating and endearing.

After dinner, in which Abbie eats two slices of pizza and Crane eats the other six, they return to the couch. Abbie flips on the television and begins to surf while she and Crane sit like bookends.

The Food Network is showing something they've already seen. Frowning, she puts on House Hunters, which she enjoys, even though it gives Crane fits. He can't get over the greed, the excess. And the prices.

Abbie shifts, tucking her feet up beside her on the couch. Crane adjusts as well, stretching his long legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankles.

It is then that Abbie notices that Crane is barefoot. "Jeez, Crane, your feet are a mess," she blurts, immediately wishing she could swallow the words back in.

"I beg your pardon!" he exclaims, slightly offended. "My feet are perfectly clean. I'll have you know that as a soldier, I…"

"Whoa, whoa, back the truck up there," she interrupts his tirade before it becomes a lecture. "I didn't mean that they're dirty. I mean they need a little… help."

"Help?" he asks, holding one foot aloft.

"Well, look at mine," she says, stretching her leg toward him.

He looks, though he remembers perfectly well what her small brown foot looked like from that first night in the hallway.

"Surely you're not suggesting I paint my toenails," he says, staring at her foot. Her skin looks soft, flawless, even touchable. She's repainted her nails a curious bright blue.

"Of course not," she says. "Just… just wait here." She stands and disappears for a minute or two, leaving Crane to contemplate his feet.

_What's wrong with them? They are perfectly serviceable. True, they aren't the attractive appendages that Miss Mills seems graced with, but they're just feet. Tools for walking._

He hears Abbie running water in the kitchen, and a few minutes later, she comes in with a large rectangular plastic tub and a towel. She sets them near his feet.  
"In," she says, tapping his shin.

"In?"

"Your feet. In the water. I'm going to give you a pedicure."

"A what?"

"A pedicure. You'll love it, trust me. Now roll those trouser legs up and put those big boats in the tub," she orders waving her hand at his feet.

"Boats?" he mutters, blinking with amused surprise, watching as she disappears for a minute once again.

He pulls his trouser legs up over his knees and dutifully places his feet into the water. It's very warm, almost hot. It already feels good.

Somewhere in the back of his mind it registers that Miss Mills attending his feet might be a bit… intimate. But he's honestly too bone-weary and exhausted right now to spend the energy worrying about it.

"Oh, honestly, you can paint the damn walls," Abbie says to the television, sitting down on her end of the couch with a handful of small instruments. "They always complain about wall color, and that's the easiest thing to change."

"Indeed," he says, just going with it.

She snorts, knowing he's humoring her.

She spreads a towel across her knees, and motions for him to give her one of his feet.

As she works, the television is forgotten. Abbie concentrates on her task. Crane concentrates on Abbie.

"Detective Morales does not trust me," he says suddenly.

"Detective Morales doesn't trust anybody," she says. "Let me know if I hurt you."

He nods. "It must be a lonely existence for him, if that is indeed the truth," he says. Her small hands are surprisingly strong. "Who does this for you?"

"I do," she says. "And why do you think Luke doesn't trust you?"

"He goes out of his way to avoid me. Whenever he must converse with me, I can see the contempt bubbling just beneath the surface of his bearing."

"Hmm," she says, running a large emery board across his heel, scowling at it.

"And I heard him say something to that effect to Captain Irving," he finally admits.

She smiles. "Don't worry about Luke. He's… naturally suspicious." Now she frowns.

"Is that why the two of you are no longer betrothed?" he asks.

She stops what she's doing. "We were never 'betrothed,' all right? We… dated. I guess in your terms, he 'courted' me for a while. But there was never talk of marriage."

His brow furrows. "Well, that's hardly noble. What were his intentions if not matrimony, I wonder? And do not think that I failed to notice you did not answer my question, Lieutenant."

"I don't want to talk about it," she mutters, returning to his foot. Retreating back into her shell.

He is quiet for a moment, unsure how to proceed. "You do not need to hide from me, Miss Mills," he says at length. His voice is soft. Almost tender.

"I'm not hiding," she protests.

"I beg to differ. I also beg you not to close yourself off from me. We are partners, are we not? Connected by fate since before time was recorded. We must… trust one another."

She looks up at him, several options of what to say next playing through her mind. She could ask him about Katrina, why he never speaks of her. Fighting fire with fire.

She could continue to argue that she's not hiding behind the wall she's erected around herself, the wall she uses to keep everyone at arms' length. But that would be a lie.

She could give in, and trust him.

It's not like she has much of a choice in the matter, anyway.

"I do trust you," she admits quietly, reaching for a bottle of lotion. It's thick, utilitarian, heavy-duty stuff she uses in the winter when all she does is itch.

"Oh, really?" he asks, half-amused. "You've got an interesting way of showing it, if I may say."

"You may not," she says, smirking despite herself. "All right. You really want to know why Luke and I broke up?"

He pauses, as if he's actually thinking about the question. "Yes, if you are willing to tell me."

"He thought I was cheating on him," she says, rubbing the lotion into his foot, which is now much smoother, nails neat, calluses subdued.

"Cheating? Oh, that feels good…"

"Being unfaithful to him. Seeing other men apart from him. In a romantic way," she explains.

"You would _never!_" he gasps, affronted for her.

"Thank you," she says. "He was suspicious of every man I spoke with. Sheriff Corbin. Captain Irving. Larry at the doughnut shop. My leaving for Quantico was… convenient, I guess. It was a good excuse to break it off, since he wouldn't believe that I wasn't seeing anyone else." She stops. Suddenly his attitude towards Crane pulls into sharp focus. _He's still jealous. He's jealous of Ichabod Crane._

"But surely, as a detective, he should be observant enough to know…"

"Yeah, but in matters of the heart, sometimes one's judgment isn't always completely sound," she says, smirking at him again. "Other foot, please."

"Touché, Miss Mills," he says swinging his other foot up into her lap while bending his knee to move the completed one out of the way.

_He's very graceful for one so tall and lanky._

"All right. Now it's your turn," she says. "I propose a trade. I've given you something, now you give me something." Now she is thankful that he doesn't get double entendres.

However, the smirk that briefly crosses his face gives her pause, as if somewhere deep down, he may be hiding just as big a gutter-mind as hers.

"What would you like to know?" he asks.

"What's the deal with Katrina? You always change the subject when I bring her up."

He sighs. _I suspected that's what she was going to ask._ "I've been trying to process my feelings about her. Us. Our marriage. She never told me she was a witch. As it turns out, she was quite a powerful one at that. I… I cannot help but wonder… did she _truly_ love me or was I just…"

"A pawn?" Abbie quietly supplies. She'd actually been wondering much the same thing, just based on the small amount of information she'd gleaned.

"Yes. Did she know that it was I who was fated to behead the Hessian, that it was I who had been chosen to be one of the two Witnesses? Did she… orchestrate our courtship so that she could see to it that I did my duty?"

Abbie nods sympathetically, but really doesn't know what to say. "I'm sure that even if she was… doing _her_ duty by seeing to it that you did yours… that she grew to love you, Ichabod," she finally says, deciding that now is as good a time as any to use his first name. "Even if she might not have at first, or didn't intend for it to happen."

"She was certainly convincing if she didn't," he says, somewhat to himself. Then he seems to remember that Abbie is there, and his cheeks redden slightly. "I—"

"Crane, don't apologize," Abbie says. "You're not scandalizing me, I promise. Things are different now in that regard. _Very_ different."

"Oh," he says. Then, realization dawning… "_Oh!_" He blushes again, and Abbie bites back her chuckle.

"So you're feeling… a little betrayed? Used? And it… bothers you, because you're an intelligent man, and you had no idea?" she asks, directing the conversation back.

"I think so. Katrina visits me sometimes, in dreams, as you know. She helps when she can. I… saw her, when I was in hospital."

"Yes, I remember," Abbie says. She also remembers the little twinge of jealousy she felt at it, at hearing him recount how he could touch her, kiss her, hold her.

It's the same twinge she's fighting back right now, in fact, just listening to him speak of her.

"Quite right," he says, nodding. "I am having difficulty reconciling my feelings of betrayal with the love that still lingers for her. Though I know she is likely lost to me forever."

"That's understandable. I thought I loved Luke," she admits.

"Did you?"

She shrugs. "Luckily, I never said it. Neither did he. Good thing, too, because about the time I was beginning to think I did, he started freaking out on me."

"Freaking out," he repeats, trying out the words. "I like that. It's very… descriptive."

"And versatile, you'll find," she says.

They are quiet for a few more minutes, both lost in their thoughts. Abbie is thinking about Crane and Katrina. Crane is thinking about Miss Mills and Detective Morales.

"Miss Mills?" he asks.

"Hmm?"

"Why do you think Katrina would likely have grown to love me, even if that wasn't her original intent?"

_What? Seriously? He wants me to answer that?_

"Why do you think Luke gives you the stink-eye every time he sees you talking to me?" she counters, opting for a diversionary tactic she knows won't work. He's far too sharp.

"You must answer my question first, as I was the one who first posed my query."

_Did he really just pull out the "I asked you first" on me?_

She sighs. "Because you're a good man, Crane. You're… chivalrous and kind. Um, smart. Very smart. Honestly, you're probably the smartest person I've ever met." Her voice is soft, and her eyes are trained on his foot as she massages lotion into it. "And you're noble. Not noble like I-learned-to-track-while-hunting-foxes noble; noble like you always try to do the right thing, even if it is not best for _you._ And you're not exactly ugly, either," she finally admits.

"Hmm," he ponders her answer, giving nothing away. "Detective Morales gives me the… "stink-eye"… another good phrase, that,… because he is worried about you. He still harbors romantic inclinations towards you, even if you do not feel the same anymore… do you?" he asks, raising an eyebrow at her.

"Not at all," she says. Her hands are still, but his foot remains in her lap, resting on the towel there.

"He cares about you. And he does not trust me because I was a suspect in Sheriff Corbin's murder, a murder that, in his mind, is still an unsolved case. He also doesn't believe that I'm a professor on leave from Oxford, even though that is, in fact, true. To a point," he chuckles. "Oh, and he likely believes that you and I are romantically involved."

And it's out. The elephant is in the room again, parking its big pink elephant backside on the couch between them. He trumpets loudly, demanding attention.

"He's got a jealous streak a mile wide," Abbie says quietly, addressing Crane's last point but not.

"Indeed."

"It's over between us. For me, anyway."

"You do not need to explain yourself to me, Miss Mills."

"Yes, I do," she says. "You were the one saying we need to trust each other. You opened those floodgates, Crane."

He nods, "I understand, and I believe you."

A moment later, he speaks again. "So… you find me handsome, then?"

"I never said that," she says, caught. _I thought I was safe when he didn't say anything._

"Not in so many words," he points out.

"Oh, is the great Ichabod Crane insecure about his looks?" Abbie teases, unthinkingly running her fingertip up the sole of his foot.

He jumps and yelps.

"Oh, is the great Ichabod Crane _ticklish?_" she goads, but he jerks his large foot out of her grasp before she can do any further damage.

"I'll thank you to keep that information to yourself," he says, trying not to smile.

"Hey, what happens in this house, stays in this house," she quips, knowing the reference will be completely lost on him.

"Agreed," he says, not realizing that Abbie has just fed the elephant in the room. Again.

xXx

That night, Katrina visits Crane in his dreams. Understandably, he's a little nervous, given his recent sleeping arrangements with Abbie.

And his earlier confession. He doesn't know how much Katrina sees or hears when he's awake.

"Katrina…"

"You do not need to explain yourself, Ichabod," she says, hovering just out of reach, like usual. "Abigail Mills is your fellow Witness. Your partner in this time. The fact that you find solace in her arms, just as she does in yours, is neither a mistake nor a coincidence."

"I'm… confused. I do not like being confused."

"I know, my love. You must follow your heart where it leads you. It is your salvation," she says, stepping forward. Yet somehow, she is still out of his reach.

"Is this why you've come to me tonight?"

"Only in part," she says. "All Hallows' Eve is approaching."

"Yes," he nods. He's been worried about it. Honestly he'd been hoping that the occasion would go un-marked, that All Hallows' Eve would be a forgotten event.

However, he'd found that just the opposite had happened. It had been turned into a farcical holiday, merely an excuse for children to dress in costumes and be given confections.

"The demon will be at hand. You must be vigilant," she says, starting to back away into the mist.

"Katrina…"

"Ichabod, remember: it is at its weakest point on All Hallows' Eve…"

"Katrina!"

xXx

Crane slowly wakes, unsure of the time. He hovers in the half-and-half, that moment between sleeping and wakefulness, relishing the floating, warm feeling.

His limbs start to stir and he becomes slowly aware of the small body of Miss Mills wrapped in his arms, her narrow back against his chest, her round backside nestled into his groin, her delicate feet tucked between his calves.

He doesn't even notice the tickle of her hair against his neck anymore. In fact, he would miss it if it were absent.

Crane's mind drifts back to his dream, to the warning Katrina gave him. And the strange sort of… blessing over his current _situation_ with Miss Mills.

He doesn't know what else to call it.

He stubbornly keeps his eyes closed, unwilling to admit that he is awake. Unwilling to abandon Miss Mills in her slumber.

Unwilling to release her from his embrace.

His right hand flexes, and his fingers register something soft and warm. _Where is my hand?_ He does it again, squeezing the softness. His thumb sweeps across, investigating.

When it encounters a small, hard nub as it tracks the surface, when he hears a soft sigh escape Miss Mills' throat, he has his answer.

_Oh, dear. Oh, no. This cannot be. This will not do. This… feels so… nice…_

_ No. You are a gentleman, Ichabod Crane, and you will remove your hand before Miss Mills wakes._

He carefully, slowly moves his hand, placing it back around her waist. Only then does he crack an eye open to check the time. It's 5:10 a.m. He closes his eye again, willing his body's physical reaction to its unintentional discovery of Miss Mills' nearly perfect breasts to abate. Well, technically, breast.

_Sleep, Crane. Do not wake her._

Abbie feels him relax behind her. She woke up ten seconds after he did, but kept still, playing possum.

She immediately knew where Crane's hand was. She also knew that if she let him know she was awake, it would make things worse.

Then he had to go and investigate. He had to go and _move that damn thumb_. The sigh had escaped, but she kept the whimper that had wanted to accompany it bound and gagged in the corner.

Then she wonders what takes him so long to move his hand.

Then when he finally does, she finds she wants him to put it back.

When he settles back down again, she knows that he didn't realize she was awake.

_May as well try for some more sleep as well_.

She tells herself she did not feel his arousal against her backside.

She tells herself he was probably thinking she was Katrina.

She tells herself these things, but she knows she is lying.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: A word about the word "Lieutenant," if you please. It's always spelled "Lieutenant," regardless of its pronunciation. "Leftenant" is not a word. I am seeing it spelled that way in some fics, and it's setting off my OCD.**

"I saw Andy," Abbie shakily announces, a bag from Subway in her hand and a cardboard drink tray in the other. She'd gone to grab lunch for them, leaving Crane in the archives to continue poring over Corbin's notes and old, dusty tomes from the library, trying to discern the meaning in Katrina's final warning from his dream two nights ago. They've done little else since then.

It's October 31. And Abbie looks like she's just seen a ghost.

That's probably because she thinks she has.

"You saw Lieutenant Brooks? Alive?" Crane's head snaps up from the sheaf of paper he was studying. "I suppose anything is possible, given the current circumstances."

"I was driving back here and saw him. At the edge of the forest. I don't think he saw me. I hope not," she says. "Here. I got you a meatball sub. It's like… a pizza sandwich."

"No jalapeños?" he asks, cocking an eyebrow at her.

"No jalapeños," she confirms. Then she hands him his bag of chips, smiling at how his eyes light up at the sight of the little yellow bag.

"He didn't look right," she says, tucking into her Buffalo chicken. "His neck was all…" she waves her hand back and forth in front of her neck, searching for the right word, "…loose. Like there was extra skin all bunched up in front."

"It likely was stretched out when his head was snapped back," Crane says. He takes a bite of his sandwich and does that groaning sound he makes when he likes something.

"Hanging behind his back like it was a backpack," Abbie adds, shuddering slightly. It amuses her, though, just a little, that they're both so easily able to discuss Andy's gruesome death while eating (and apparently, enjoying) lunch.

"Indeed," Crane agrees. "However, there must be some explanation for his… resurrection." He looks at her with that _look_ of his. That _you know what I mean_ look.

"Moloch," Abbie whispers. Crane nods. "I saw him… in the mirror of the cell where we found Andy…"

"I know," Crane confesses. They've never really discussed that day. "I caught just the barest glimpse of… _something_… in the mirror as well, just before it cracked."

"Do you think…?"

"It would stand to reason. The demon would need human servants. Minions, if you will."

"Why would Andy agree to such a thing?"

"Desperation is the most likely reason," Crane says, crunching on a potato chip. "How well did you know Lieutenant Brooks?"

"Not as well as I thought I did, apparently," Abbie mutters. "He was quiet. Nice, but not terribly friendly, you know?"

"Mmm," he nods. "Solitary individuals often harbor secrets," he says, raising an eyebrow at her.

"Shut up," she smirks at him, and he bites back his grin. "So… why? If Moloch did bring Andy back, why?"

xXx

The sun had just slipped over the horizon when it came.

The first call. A mysterious death. A father, taking his children trick-or-treating, had dropped dead. He was perfectly healthy. None of the witnesses _claimed_ to have seen anything.

By the time everyone was back from the call, Crane was muttering and _aha-_ing over a very old-looking journal.

"He did what?" Abbie asks, her brain unwilling to process what Crane has just told her, much less accept it.

"Moloch has opened the veil between our world and his," he repeats, his voice grave. "I feared that was his plan, but was afraid to speak my thought until I could find proof."

"'It is at its weakest point on All Hallows' Eve…'" Abbie repeats Katrina's words. "She was talking about the… boundary between the world of the living and the world of the dead."

"Yes. That was his purpose for resurrecting Lieutenant Brooks. He needed a sacrifice to open the veil."

"Ugh," Abbie shudders, still haunted by the memory of seeing Andy, her friend whom she thought was dead, now little more than a grotesque pawn. "Poor Andy," she mutters, unable to help herself.

"Yes, well your 'poor Andy' knew what he was signing up for when he aligned himself with a demon," Crane says brusquely. Abbie purses her lips, chastised, but says nothing. "And now his final act of betrayal to mankind was to aid his demon puppetmaster in unleashing all manner of unholiness on Sleepy Hollow," he finishes, waving one hand in the air, nearly shouting. Frustrated.

Then he notices her frown, her downcast eyes. _She is trying to hide her hurt from me._ "Lieutenant," he says softly, his voice reaching that velvety rumble that has been turning her insides to jelly lately, "I, too, am sorry for Andrew. He may _not_ have realized the full ramifications of his actions. And I apologize for speaking harshly to you."

"It's okay. You're right," she sighs, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers. "You usually are. But right now, we need to figure out how to… how to what? Close the veil?"

"Precisely. And that is quite a large problem," he says, leaning back in his chair.

"You don't know how," she says, worried.

"No, I know how. The problem is since a human sacrifice was made to open the veil, another must be offered to close it."

"Shit," she mutters.

"Indeed," he agrees.

xXx

They head for the forest, since that's where Abbie saw Andy. And that seems to be where everything goes down, anyway. It's where she and Jenny first saw Moloch when they were girls. It's where they've ended up practically on every case, every demon they've chased down.

There is _something_ about this damn forest. And it's really starting to get on Abbie's nerves.

She pulls the car to the side of the road. "Here. This is where I saw him. By that boulder," she points.

"Let's go," Crane says, climbing out of the car.

They enter the forest, in the dark, flashlights in hand, Abbie with her gun at the ready.

Crane finds footprints here and there, but they're difficult to follow in the dark. Soon they stop moving, not lost, but stymied.

"We need a plan," Abbie says. "Something _other_ than wandering around the forest in the dark. We may as well be calling, 'Here, demon, demon.'"

"Quite," Crane agrees, looking around, his senses alert. "I wonder if—"

"Shh," Abbie says suddenly. "Listen."

He listens. Then he hears it, whisper-soft, almost as if the wind blowing through the trees is speaking.

"_Ichabod_…"

"That's a wom—"

"That's Katrina," Crane cuts her off.

"_Ichabod_…"

"This way," he says.

"Wait, we're following?" Abbie says, trailing behind him, stumbling slightly. He reaches back for her hand, clasping her cold fingers with his warm ones.

"She's guiding us," he says.

"Hopefully not to our deaths," she mutters. She would never tell Crane, but she doesn't completely trust his not-quite-dead wife. _Probably something to do with the fact that she totally used him and seems completely remorseless about it. As far as I can tell, anyway._

"_Ichabod_…"

"It's getting louder," he says, pulling her slightly to the left.

They walk another 30 yards or so, then see it. A shimmer, with nothing but darkness beyond, like a curtain made of moonbeams, quivering in the night.

"Stay back," Crane whispers, placing himself slightly in front of Abbie.

"I appreciate your chivalry, but I've got the gun," she says, trying to move out from behind him.

"Your firearm will be of no use here, Lieutenant," he says, keeping her behind him.

They stand and watch as things that can only be described as wraiths occasionally fly out of the veil, zipping past at a frightening speed. Crane ducks as one whizzes past them a little closer than he'd like.

On the drive over, they heard two more calls reporting mysterious deaths. Abbie can only surmise that these ghosts are the cause.

"Where is Moloch?" Abbie asks.

"I doubt he's here. He's likely elsewhere, plotting. Collecting these wraiths, perhaps."

"What do we do now?" she asks, starting to feel afraid. They still haven't sorted out the whole human-sacrifice-to-close-the-veil issue, and Abbie is afraid Crane is getting Ideas. _If you think, for even one second, that I'm going to let you walk your skinny ass into that veil, you'd better think again, Crane._

He looks around. "Well…"

"_Ichabod_…"

"Katrina?" he finally answers, stepping forward, out of the shelter of the trees. Abbie follows, and he turns. "Stay there."

"No," she answers, following. While his back is to the veil, a rather large wraith comes screaming out of the veil, barreling for them.

"Crane!" Abbie shoves him out of the way, but he pulls her with him, out of danger as well. Her foot connects with a tree root, gets caught, and she falls, landing with a damp thud on the leafy ground.

"Are you all right, Lieutenant?" he asks, unnecessarily straightening his coat, a bit on edge. He extends his hand down to her.

"I think so," she says, taking his hand and standing. "I just tripped on this—ow…" Her left ankle screams in protest when she tries to put weight on it.

"'Ow?' You're injured…" he puts his hand out automatically to steady her.

"I think I sprained my damn ankle," she huffs, more angry than hurt.

"I did tell you to stay put," he says, helping her to sit. "Stay low; it seems the wraiths tend to sail at about the level of my head." He briefly checks her ankle. "So even if you were standing, you'd likely be all right," he adds, smirking at her. Then he notices that Abbie is looking past him. Her face is curious, eyes wide, but she is not frightened.

"Crane," she says, pointing.

He turns. Katrina is standing ten feet away, between them and the veil.

She looks real. Solid. Alive.

"Katrina," he says, walking slowly over.

"Ichabod," she answers. "You found me."

"How are you here?" he asks, closing the distance between them. He reaches for her and finds that he can actually touch her.

Another wraith emerges from the veil. Crane sees it and steps quickly to one side, pulling Katrina with him.

"I was able to re-enter the world when the veil was opened," she says.

Abbie watches from her spot at the base of the tree. She can hear their conversation, and is conflicted. Her emotions are warring with her logic, but… something else is lurking beneath it all. _There's a reason she's here._

Crane pulls her into his arms, holding her tightly, basking in her familiar shape. He moves to kiss her.

"Ichabod," she speaks, pulling back before his lips can touch hers. "The veil must be closed."

"I will close it," he says.

_NO! _ Abbie's mind screams. She starts to scramble to her feet when Katrina speaks.

"You will not," Katrina says, stepping back, out of his embrace. She holds both of his hands and looks up at him. "It is not your time. Your work is not finished here."

He says nothing for a moment.

Realization dawns on Abbie first, hitting her like a blow to the chest. _Oh, my God…_

"No, Katrina…" Crane says a moment later, finally understanding her intent.

"It is the only way," she says. "I do not belong in this time."

"Neither do I," he says, an unbidden tear slipping from his eye.

"Yes, Ichabod, you do. You feel out of sorts at present, but this is where you belong. _Our_ time is over," she says softly, her eyes flicking briefly to where Abbie is sitting, just behind him.

"There has to be another way," he tries, his voice breaking now.

"Crane!" Abbie shouts suddenly as yet another wraith comes towards them. He dodges it again, Katrina in tow.

Abbie breathes again.

"You know there is none," Katrina answers, releasing one of his hands to wipe a tear from his cheek. "Do not mourn me, for I will finally be at peace." She releases his other hand.

"Katrina…"

"Do not close your heart, Ichabod. It will be your salvation. Follow it where it leads you," she says, repeating her words from his dream the previous night. She reaches up and rests her hand on his chest, over his heart. "This will lead you to where you belong," she says, her eyes moving to rest on Abbie once again, longer.

It makes Abbie rather uncomfortable.

But not as uncomfortable as hearing Katrina's voice inside her head. _I know you will look after him. Love him as he does you._

Abbie's eyes widen. _WHAT?_

"Katrina, I will always l—"

"I must go," Katrina says, stopping his words, knowing that if he says them, it will only make things more painful for him. "The hour is approaching. I must close the veil before midnight or it will not close." She wipes another tear from Crane's face. "I did tell you not to mourn me," she chides softly, smiling at him.

"I cannot stop it," he whispers hoarsely. _Time is so short, so unfair._

Katrina takes another step back, and another, walking slowly. Crane holds her hand until their fingertips can no longer touch.

"Farewell. I go to my peace," she says. She smiles at Crane then looks at Abbie, holding her gaze for just a few moments before giving her a small nod. She turns away from them, walking steadily into the void, head held high.

Abbie watches, transfixed and impressed by the woman's bravery. One more wraith flies out just as Katrina disappears into the blackness. The shimmering shape collapses over her, dissipating into nothingness, and the last escaped wraith evaporates in a puff of smoke. It is black for about three seconds, then the forest returns where there was only nothingness before.

_She didn't look back._ Abbie respects her for that. She's not sure _she _could be that brave, faced with the same challenge.

Ichabod stands, still as a statue, staring into the space where Katrina disappeared. Almost as if he is waiting for her to reappear.

Abbie says nothing, letting him have his moment. She will wait all night if necessary. Her ankle is throbbing and her backside is cold, damp, and starting to feel a little flat and numb. But she will wait for him for as long as he needs.

Eventually, his shoulders sag, his head drops, and she thinks she sees his shoulders hitch with a sob.

It is then that she realizes her own face is wet with tears as well. She's not crying for Katrina, she's crying for Crane, for the sadness she knows he's feeling.

He lifts his head a moment later, his back as straight as ever as he swipes his hand across his face. He turns and strides over to Abbie, bending down to help her up.

He supports her as she limps along, but after a short distance, he stops them, stooping and lifting her into his arms.

She thinks about protesting, but doesn't have the energy for an argument she's not going to win anyway.

He walks easily, as if she is no burden to him at all, making his way through the forest while Abbie holds the flashlight.

They reach the edge of the forest where her squad car is waiting. He pauses beside the car.

"I'm okay to drive," Abbie says softly. Luckily, it's her left ankle that's sprained.

He sets her on her feet – foot – beside the driver's side door, waits until she opens the door then helps her into her seat.

Crane slides into the passenger seat, and she looks at him. _He looks lost. Like he doesn't know how to process what has just happened._

He says nothing, but leans over, reaching for her across the center console of the car.

Abbie isn't sure what he wants, but leans in to meet him anyway. He clutches her shoulder, pulling her closer, wrapping his arms around her as his head drops onto her shoulder. She holds him, her fingers in his hair as he clings to her. She can feel him fighting his grief, can feel him trying to be strong.

_Do not mourn me_, Katrina had said. Abbie realizes he's trying to do as she has bidden, but doesn't have the ability.

She drops her head against his, her cheek against his hair. "Let's go home," she whispers. Without thinking, she turns her face and kisses the top of his head.

He keeps his face tucked into her neck a few moments longer, then slowly releases her. He meets her eyes in the dark of the car, blinks once, and nods.

xXx

When they get home, she shoves him towards the bedroom, where he undresses and collapses into bed in just his underwear, unable to even muster enough energy to put on his pajamas.

Half-hopping, half-limping, Abbie quickly grabs a reusable ice pack from the freezer, takes some ibuprofen, and changes into her pajamas in the bathroom because she knows Crane is already in bed. She knows she needs to get in there quickly, because it may be a very long night.

He's nearly asleep when she joins him. She knows she needs to put some ice on her ankle for a while, so she sits up in bed with her iPad, ice pack on her ankle, Crane's head in her lap.

Abbie tries to play solitaire, something that doesn't take a lot of thought, but her eyes keep drifting to Crane, watching him sleep. Watching over him.

_Please, God, let him have a dreamless night._

It is a small prayer, but it is enough. Even when the ice pack is no longer cold and she sets the iPad aside, she lies awake in his arms, keeping watch. She hopes her presence will be enough to keep his nightmares away tonight.

She hopes, but isn't certain.

xXx

Abbie woke with a start, finding herself alone in her bed.

Their bed?

She drifted now and then, but mostly kept watch over Crane. Every time he moved, every little noise he made snapped her into full wakefulness.

She looks around the room, noting the barest hint of dawn starting to show through the curtains.

_I need to get some thicker curtains._

She is about to call out to him when she hears the flush of the toilet. Crane returns a minute later, now in a t-shirt along with his boxer briefs. He slips back into bed and wraps himself around her again.

"Miss Mills, you did not sleep," he says softly. "Do so now, please. It is my turn to watch over you."

Abbie's eyes close with a small sigh and she drifts to sleep almost immediately, secure in his embrace.


	8. Chapter 8

Ichabod Crane has never been predisposed to chatter, but in the days following Katrina's self-sacrifice, he was more taciturn than usual.

Abbie expected this, but instead of tiptoeing around him, she endeavored to retain whatever sense of normalcy they had achieved prior to Halloween.

At the station, Crane tended to stay down in the archives, reading, poring over ancient volumes and Corbin's notes. Abbie spends time with him there when she can, but can't neglect her "normal" police work entirely. She abuses Captain Irving's good nature enough already. As she watches him devour tome after tome, she wonders how much his amazing brain can actually hold.

A great deal, as it turns out. He's quickly becoming a walking encyclopedia of the occult and the apocalypse.

At home, he spends most of his time with Abbie's iPad, reading American history, catching up on the 232 years he missed while buried in that cave.

Abbie, however, notices small changes in him no one else would see. He stands closer to her when they are standing or walking, often tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow or gently escorting her with a light hand on the small of her back. When he says "Miss Mills" or "Lieutenant," the timbre of his voice seems softer. More tender.

And he's even more protective of her than before. She can see the worry behind his eyes when she goes out on a call, even if it is for something she could handle in her sleep.

_He's afraid he's going to lose me, too,_ she realizes. The thought is sobering, but she finds a strange sort of comfort in it as well.

He holds her as close as ever at night in their bed, their sanctuary from the world.

At least that's how it feels to Abbie. Some nights she cannot wait until it's late enough to go to bed, just to lie in his embrace and hide from the world. She wonders if – hopes that – Crane feels the same way.

Crane has thrown himself into study as a way to escape, a way to cope. Facts are stalwart, grounding him in this strange new world into which he's been thrown. History is a comfort. He can trust books.

He can trust Abbie.

He knows he's withdrawn somewhat from her since Katrina gave her life for theirs. Even so, he cannot help but admire her fortitude, her determination to keep going. Deep down, he knows she does it for him.

The fact that she doesn't coddle him in his mourning is surprisingly helpful. Reassuring, in a sense.

Crane is not one who wallows; he is one who thinks. And lately his thoughts have been on Miss Mills. And Katrina. And Miss Mills. And Katrina's final words to him. Final words he's fairly certain are _about_ Miss Mills.

Some nights in bed it is she who holds him. One night he quietly cried into her shoulder, gradually soaking her t-shirt (the nights had grown colder and she'd switched from tank tops to t-shirts) until he fell asleep, his head on her shoulder and her fingers in his hair.

The next morning she made no mention of what had transpired, greeting him with a cup of coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs and toast when he had emerged from the shower. In that moment, he knew she understood him.

xXx

The Saturday before Thanksgiving, Abbie finds Crane sitting at the kitchen table, contemplating a square of lace folded in front of him.

"Are you hungry?" she asks, her hand resting on his shoulder briefly as she passes.

"Mmm," he grunts noncommittally.

"That's a yes," she says. "I'll make you a grilled cheese sandwich. You like those."

He nods slightly, still looking at the lace, which Abbie now sees is a handkerchief.

She makes his sandwich, Colby-Jack cheese with a slice of tomato, the way he likes it. She places it next to his hand on the table along with a glass of apple juice (another favorite) and a bowl of grapes.

She brings her own plate to the table and sits across from him.

"Was that Katrina's?" she asks softly as he slides it to the side and pulls his plate in front of him.

"Yes. It is the only thing I have left of her," he says.

Abbie is a little surprised he is so forthcoming. _Of course, he's never kept anything from me before_. "It's beautiful," she says, admiring it from her place at the table. She does not touch it.

"She gave it to me when I went into battle," he explains between bites of his sandwich. "A Lady granting her favor, as it were," he adds, smiling a little.

It is a practice as old as time, Abbie knows this. She's always thought it rather sweet, in fact. She does wonder if Katrina somehow enchanted it to keep him safe, but doesn't ask.

"Perhaps a talisman," Crane says, almost under his breath, as if he is reading Abbie's thoughts.

"It was in your old clothes?" Abbie asks, then notices he's actually wearing his old clothes. He does that when he's feeling particularly homesick. Mindful of this tendency, she takes special care with these clothes so that they are clean and available should he want them, always washing them on the gentle cycle so they won't fall apart.

He nods, finishing his sandwich.

"Would you like another?" she asks.

"Do not go to any trouble," he says.

"That's another yes," she answers, standing and going to the stove again. "And it's no trouble."

"You are too good to me, Miss Mills," he says.

Her stomach wobbles a little when he says her name. It happens frequently now. She pretends to ignore it, putting his second sandwich in the frying pan.

"I'm just making your lunch," she answers softly, downplaying his sentiment.

"You know that is not what I meant."

Abbie doesn't know what to say to that. She meets his steady gaze for a moment, forgetting to breathe, then looks down and turns her attention to the stove, concentrating on making his sandwich.

She hears him shift in his chair behind her.

"I should like to place this in Katrina's grave," he says after she sets his second sandwich in front of him.

"You don't want to keep it?" Abbie asks.

"Her grave is empty. She has no remains, and…" he pauses, sighing, "…she would not want me to hold onto the past. I've already disobeyed her wishes by mourning her…"

"Mourning her was unavoidable, Crane," Abbie says. "She was your wife. Of _course_ you're going to mourn her."

"I know," he says, closing his eyes a minute. "Nevertheless, I cannot help but think that this is the right thing to do."

Abbie has finished eating and takes her plate to the sink. Then she heads to her bedroom closet and pulls out a box. It's shiny red flecked with gold, about four inches square, two inches high, and empty. She received a Christmas gift in it from Sheriff Corbin last year, but kept the box because it was too beautiful to toss. It's only thick cardboard, but it will suffice. She hopes.

She sets it on the table next to Crane. He's done eating, just setting his empty glass on the table.

"What is this?" he asks.

"A box," she simply says, taking his plate and glass and sets them in the sink with her plate.

"It's lovely," he says, sliding it towards himself. He lifts the lid. "Is this for…?"

"Yes. Sheriff Corbin gave me a gift in this box last Christmas. A monogrammed handkerchief, coincidentally. I kept the box to reuse one day because it was too pretty to throw away. I… would be honored if you'll use it for this," she says, biting her lip.

"Thank you," he answers softly, looking up at her, his eyes sad but grateful. He lifts the lace handkerchief and places it in the box.

Abbie drops him off at the church where Katrina's gravestone sits above a patch of nothing more than dirt.

"I'll come back in a bit," she says, knowing he needs to be alone. She decides to go to Starbuck's and get some coffee. _It's cold out today, he'll like something warm._

Crane takes the garden spade (less conspicuous than a shovel) and the red box containing the handkerchief. Abbie found a gold ribbon and he had tied that around it as well. He walks to the headstone and stands, box in one hand, spade in the other.

After a minute, once he's certain that he is quite alone, he kneels down onto the soft, cold ground. It still looks a bit disturbed from when he dug out the Horseman's head two months ago. As a result, he finds the digging quite easy.

Once he's dug deep enough to prevent the box from being accidentally uncovered, he lifts it to his lips, kisses it once, and places it in the ground. Then he piles the dirt over it, filling the hole he's made, and replacing the sod as best he can.

He stands and brushes his hands together, trying to get them clean. _I'll wash up properly when I get home._

Abbie, after stopping at the gas station and Starbuck's, pulls her car into the parking lot beside the church. The graveyard is in the back, so she gets out and walks around the building, leaving the coffees in the car so they stay warm.

"…I never got a chance to say goodbye, Katrina…"

Abbie hears Crane before she sees him. She slowly rounds the corner and sees him standing, hands clasped behind his back. _I'm too early._ She silently watches him, moved by the sadness emanating from him as he bends his head, talking to Katrina's spirit.

Her presence catches his periphery and he looks up sharply, making her jump just a little, startled out of the study she was making of him. Gathering her wits, Abbie gestures that she'll be in the car, and starts to turn.

"Stay," his voice is quiet, but rings clear as a bell through the cold, still autumn air.

She hovers, not sure if he wants her close or far. She decides to remain where she is.

"You bid me farewell, but I said nothing, and for that I most humbly apologize," Crane continues, his attention back on Katrina's grave. "You told me you would be at peace, and I believe you. I can neither imagine nor endure the thought of the torment you must have suffered when Moloch held you in Purgatory. You found your way out, and for that I should be thankful. You loved me in our time, and for that I _am_ thankful."

Abbie tries not to listen, but can't help it. There's no other sound. _And he told you to stay here. He doesn't mind if you hear him._ His openness with her continues to be a source of wonder for her, someone who has made a habit of keeping herself closed off to others. Sometimes, she wishes she could allow herself the same freedom.

"I will follow my heart, as you have bidden me. I know now that you are correct. I know it will not lead me astray. Like always, you knew before I did," he says, smiling slightly because he now knows why that was.

"Be at peace, Katrina. I will miss you, miss seeing you in my dreams. But I must learn to live in this fascinating time. I must move forward with what is now my life. Farewell, Wife."

He kisses his fingers, presses them to her name on the stone, and whispers something Abbie cannot hear. He wipes the tears from his face, takes a deep breath, and walks towards Abbie.

"Lieutenant," he greets her, smiling a very small smile. "Shall we go home?"

"I've got coffee in the car," she says, falling into step beside him, taking nearly two steps to every one of his long strides.

"You are a lifesaver," he says.

Abbie feels his hand on the small of her back as they walk to the car. She resists the urge to lean into him. _He just said his final goodbye to his dead wife, for crying out loud._

He opens her car door for her and she climbs in. He enters the car and she presents him with his latte with hazelnut and a bag of doughnut holes from the gas station.

"Thank you, Miss Mills," he says, setting the spade on the floor at his feet.

He eats a doughnut hole and makes that groaning noise.

_It's like porn, that sound._

_ Stop it. Drive._

"What would you like for dinner?" she asks, scrambling for conversation.

"I have no preference," he says, drinking his coffee. "You remembered," he says, smiling.

"Your reaction to the hazelnut was pretty unforgettable," she says. "Would you like to go out for dinner?"

"Out?"

"To a restaurant. I have a hankering for some Chinese food."

"I can only assume that 'hankering' translates into something akin to 'desire,'" he says, arching an eyebrow at her.

_I think he's back._

_ Ignore the way the word 'desire' sounds when he says it._

"You'll love it. It's good stuff," she says. "But it's a bit early, so I think we'll go home first."

"Mmm," he mumbles, his mouth full of doughnut hole. Stopped at a traffic light, she looks over at him. He has crumbs in his beard and a smudge of dirt on his cheek where he wiped his face with his dirty hand.

Before she realizes what she's doing, Abbie reaches up with her thumb and wipes the dirt from his cheek.

"Dirt," she whispers, dropping her hand as they stare at each other.

The light changes.

"I believe the light is green, Miss Mills," he says quietly, his eyes flicking briefly to the traffic signal.

"Oh," she says, pressing the accelerator, thankful that her police cruiser likely stopped the person in the car behind them from honking his horn.

_What the hell is your problem, Girl?_

**A/N: Shameless self-promotion time! If you enjoy my writing, I have an original novel available for purchase on Amazon for Kindle and Kindle apps. The link is on my profile page, and it's not expensive, I promise.**


	9. Chapter 9

"Come on, Crane, we need to get going if we're going to pick up Jenny on time," Abbie says, pulling her coat on.

Jenny still hadn't signed the paperwork that would get her released to Abbie's custody. Even if she had, she'd still be at the mental hospital until they got their court date, at which they'd have to prove that Jenny was fit enough to be looked after by Abbie and that Abbie was capable of caring for her "delusional" sister.

Abbie has spoken to Jenny on the phone several times since she returned to the hospital, and had asked twice about whether or not she'd signed it. The third time they spoke, Abbie no longer had the energy to ask. She knew the answer.

She also knew why Jenny was dragging her feet. The answer was in one word: custody. Jenny bristled at the fact that, technically, Abbie would be the one in charge.

And if she is completely honest, Abbie doesn't really blame her. She threw her own sister under the bus when they were kids. Even though Abbie has apologized (and apologized and apologized), Jenny needs time to forgive her.

So Abbie is looking forward to spending the afternoon with her sister, at her house, watching a little football and eating a lot of food.

Crane's presence will help, too. Jenny likes him, and he, her. They have a fair amount in common, and she is actually pretty civil to him. Also, Abbie thinks she secretly likes being called "Miss Jenny."

"I'm right here, Miss Mills," Crane's voice is surprisingly close.

"Damn, you're like a cat," she remarks, startling when she turns and he's _right_ there.

"After you, my lady," he says, his lips curving into a small smile as he follows her out the door.

That's another thing that has Abbie a little… jumpy. Crane. Since his visit to the cemetery, he's been his old self again, but not. It's like he's more relaxed than he was. More _himself._

He continues to devour information at a staggering rate, never ceasing in his research, but more and more he has moments where he's playful, almost silly, once leaving Abbie laughing so hard her sides ached.

More unsettling is the fact that he seems to be more openly… affectionate. Nothing inappropriate, of course, but occasionally he'll take her hand in his while they walk rather than offering his arm. Or he'll reach out and touch her hand, her arm, one time even her knee, while they discuss something.

And she's caught him staring once or twice. Just regarding her with those eyes of his, those sharp blue eyes that see most things and remember _every_thing. When she catches him, he flushes and quickly directs his attention elsewhere.

The _most_ unsettling realization for Abbie is the fact that she finds she _likes_ these changes. Not unsettling so much as surprising. She finds herself reciprocating without thought, seeking out his hand sometimes, leaning closer to him when he's showing her something in a book, allowing her own eyes to linger on him from time to time.

She's accepted the fact she finds him attractive. He's a very handsome man, there is no arguing that point.

It would be easier to deal with the growing physical attraction if he wasn't so damned _charming_ as well. And brilliant. And trustworthy.

He opens her car door for her, as is his habit these days, and she climbs in. While he's walking around to his door, her cell rings. She doesn't recognize the number.

"Hello?"

"Hello, is this Abigail Mills?"

"Yes, this is she."

"Miss Mills, this is Nurse Anna Pacetti. I'm calling on behalf of your sister Jennifer."

Crane climbs into the car and fastens his seat belt, his eyes trained on Abbie's worried face.

"Is something wrong?"

"I'm afraid Jenny won't be available to join you for Thanksgiving dinner. I'm sorry," the nurse says.

"Why? Is she sick? What's the matter?"

"She withdrew her request for a day pass last night, I'm afraid. She didn't give a reason."

"Can I talk to her?" She feels Crane's hand cover hers, squeezing gently. Automatically, she turns her hand, holding his, squeezing back.

"Um… I'm sorry, but she told me she doesn't want to be disturbed." The nurse sounds rather uncomfortable now.

"Of course she doesn't," Abbie snaps. "Sorry. It's not your fault. Thank you."

"I'm s—"

Abbie disconnects the call, cutting off the nurse's words. She didn't want to hear another apology followed by an empty "Happy Thanksgiving."

"Miss Jenny won't be joining us, will she?" he asks softly, but it isn't a question.

"No," she answers shortly, taking her hand from his, getting out of the car, slamming the door, and stomping back to the house.

Crane follows, not rushing after her. He knows she needs space. When he gets inside, he hangs up his coat, picks hers up from the chair where she'd flung it, and hangs it up as well. She's already back in the kitchen, busying herself.

He hovers, uncertain. He's never seen her quite this agitated. Not over something personal, anyway. He knows the sisters have some issues they need to work out between them, thus he's not sure he should intervene.

_Best to simply let her know you are there for her._ "Miss Mills, do you require any assistance?"

"No," she says, not turning around. "I guess we'll have Thanksgiving with just you and me," she adds.

"I shall be in the living room if you require me for… anything at all," he says.

"I won't," she answers.

_Of course that is her answer._

Her slightly hunched shoulders coupled with the fact that she won't look at him stabs a little, but he retreats to the living room to continue trying to unravel the mystery of American football.

xXx

Dinner is a quiet affair. Abbie's mood seems to have improved, bolstered somewhat by her attempts at explaining football to Crane. He mostly understood what was going on, but he just could not get past the fact that it all seemed so _brutal._

In the end, she just gave up, throwing her hands in the air and declaring, "Either you get it or you don't."

After they eat, he helps her clean up. She had put the turkey carcass in a large pot of water on the stove for soup, and it's simmering away while they work.

Crane ate a remarkable amount of food, but there are still enough leftovers for the soup as well as turkey sandwiches.

The dishes are clean and dry, and Abbie is putting them away when Crane excuses himself to the bathroom for a moment.

All that remain are some larger serving pieces, stored in the higher cupboards because Abbie doesn't use them very often.

Sighing, she lifts a glass bowl to the cupboard above the stove, stretching up on her toes.

The bowl slips from her grasp and shatters all over the stovetop.

Abbie stares at the shards, unmoving. As if she's forgotten what to do. As if she's expecting the pieces of glass to reassemble themselves into their correct shape and return to her hands, whole and perfect.

As if each shard is a piece of her life, shattered in front of her.

She feels a fat tear roll down her cheek. And another.

_Why is the kitchen rising? Oh…_ She then realizes the room is not rising. She's sinking to the floor. Sinking into herself, where it's safe.

"Miss Mills, is everything all right? I heard a crash," Crane calls as he hurries back to the kitchen. He pulls up short at the scene before him.

Abbie is sitting on the floor, her knees drawn up, her head on her forearms. He can't see her face, but can hear her crying.

He drops to his knees in front of her, mindful of the glass nearby. "Are you injured?" he asks softly, eyes scanning the glass littering the area, searching for droplets of blood.

She shakes her head "no" without lifting it.

"Miss Mills…" he says, realizing that something is very wrong with his partner. He reaches his hand across, gently touching her shoulder.

She shrugs it off.

"Go away," she says.

"Um… no, I do not think I will," he answers, withdrawing his hand. Instead he moves, sitting beside her on the tile.

"I'm fine," she tells him, still not looking up.

"I don't believe that you are," he says softly. "You are crying on your kitchen floor."

She looks up at him, her eyes watery. "I broke a damn bowl," she declares.

"I see that. Surely that is not the reason for your tears," he says. He wants to reach over and wipe away her tears, but doesn't move.

"Of course it isn't," she says, dropping her head again, hiding her face from him. "It's not because of Jenny, either. Not really."

"Will you tell me?" he asks.

She lifts her head. "I don't know why I'm crying, all right? I dropped the bowl, and I just…"

Crane waits, watching her, noting how small she looks, how fragile. She's curled into a little ball, closing herself off from everything. From him. He is surprised at how much this fact hurts.

"I…" she starts and stops, unsure how to proceed. "Everything just feels so out of control… so out of place…"

He raises his arm and slowly puts it around her shoulders. She stiffens for a moment, then slumps against him, allowing him to pull her closer against his side.

_I'm here_ is the silent message,_ and I am not going anywhere_.

"All this… apocalypse stuff… Corbin… Andy… Moloch… Katrina…" She sniffles again, lifting her head. "Jenny. _You…_"

"I am sorry to be a part of your burden…" he starts.

"No… you're not a burden," she explains, touching his leg once, "you're just… _you._ I mean, I know it's much worse for you, but… from my side of things, you're a pretty big pill to swallow…"

"I know, and I am sorry…"

"Stop apologizing!" she says, raising her voice, frustrated. "You're not doing anything wrong, all right? You're just…" she trails off, stopping herself before she says something she can't take back. Something _meaningful._ She sighs. "It's just too much… I can't do this, Crane, I can't." She takes a shuddering breath and the tears start afresh.

"You can," he says softly. "You are honestly the strongest person I have ever met, and I admire you for it."

"I'm not strong… I'm a coward. Jenny's the strong one. She wasn't afraid to stand up and tell the truth, knowing she sounded crazy. I lied. I hid behind my fear."

"Ah, I see," Crane says with a small, knowing smile. "You are waiting for Miss Jenny to forgive you for your actions, but you have not yet forgiven yourself," he gently points out.

"Maybe," she says, not ready to admit he is completely correct.

He squeezes her shoulder in response.

She wipes her face with her sleeve and takes a deep breath, trying to regain her composure.

"I can't do this," she repeats, whispering. "I can't be the second Witness… You're wrong, it's not me… It _can't_ be… I'm not… I… don't have it in me." Just when she thought she'd stopped the tears, another rolls down her cheek. This time Crane reaches up and gently wipes it away.

"Miss Mills," he says, using one finger to turn her face towards his. "You _are_ the second Witness. My partner in this time. I have never been more certain of anything in my life."  
"Well, I'm glad _you're_ sure," she says, but his certainty does bolster her. She's felt the bond between them many times now, both here in the house and out in the world, chasing down whatever creepy asshole Moloch tries to throw their way.

"I can think of no one else I'd rather have at my side," he answers, trying to reassure her.

Abbie closes her eyes, overwhelmed, turning her head to face forward again. She takes a deep, shuddering breath.

"Miss Mills, may I kiss you?" he asks, his voice quiet.

Her eyes open and she looks up at him, at his earnest face. His eyes are soft, tender, full of sympathy. Empathy. Unable to speak, she nods once, barely moving.

He lifts her chin with that single finger again and softly, _comfortingly_, presses his lips to hers. It is a chaste kiss, one of reassurance.

Crane lifts his head, and before Abbie opens her eyes, he presses another small kiss to her forehead.

"Thank you," she whispers, finally leaning against him, her head on his shoulder. _I feel safe with him._ It is a revelation.

They sit quietly for a minute, listening to the soft hiss of the burner and the murmur of the simmering pot. She heaves a world-weary sigh.

"You are accustomed to looking after yourself," Crane finally says. She nods without lifting her head. "And you keep your emotions under wraps to shield yourself."

"Yeah," she admits. "But if you had the life I had growing up…"

He holds up his hand. "I fully understand the source of these behaviors. I merely mentioned these things only to add you do not need to shield yourself from me. Please, allow me to take care of you when you need someone on which to lean. If you are hurting, I wish to know so that I might help you."

Another tear slips from Abbie's eye. "I'll try. That's the best I can do right now," she whispers.

"I know," he answers.

"It's just… everyone I've ever cared about has been taken away from me," she whispers. "My parents. My sister. Corbin. If anything happened…" She stops herself again.

Crane looks down at her, pleased and surprised she's finally opening up to him. _I am all she has right now, just as she is all I have, _he realizes. "I am not going to go anywhere, I promise," he reassures her, taking her hand in his free one.

"You can't know that," she says, her voice breaking slightly. "Don't make me a damn promise you can't keep."

"You are right. I cannot make that promise. But I _can_ promise if I do leave, it will not be by my choosing," he says.

She breathes a shaky sigh, shifting on the hard floor.

He absently rubs her knuckles with his thumb. She feels a… _something_… from the sensation stealing over her body. It's not desire, not this time. It's security.

"Before you got here, I was all set to go to Quantico, to start a new life, heading towards a career with the FBI. Federal Bureau of Investigations. Kind of the police for the whole country," she explains. "This wasn't how I envisioned my life."

"Fate does not often show her hand," he says, still rubbing her knuckles with his thumb.

"'Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans,'" she quotes, resting her head on his shoulder again.

"That is very poignant," he says, impressed.

"It's not mine. John Lennon said it."

"Is he a philosopher?"

"Musician," she explains.

"As near as, in some cases," he says.

"You haven't heard much recent music, have you?" she asks sardonically.

"Is this Mr. Lennon not recent?"  
"No, he's not. He's dead, actually. Shot and killed just over 30 years ago."

"Ah," he nods, making a mental note to look into this Lennon person.

They sit together quietly for several minutes, Abbie's head on Crane's shoulder, his arm around her.

"Thank you," she says at length. "For being here. For staying, even though I told you to go away."

"You are most welcome," he says, looking down at her. She looks up at him, and their eyes lock for a moment. "You must draw your strength from me, just as I draw mine from you," he adds softly.

"You do that?" she asks, surprised.

"Of course. It is what makes us a good team."

She looks up at him, her eyes full of wonder at this strange man, this amazing man, this man who seems determined to ensure that she does not lose hope.

Crane gazes down at her, losing himself in the mahogany pools of her eyes. He releases her hand and softly touches her cheek with his fingertips, momentarily forgetting manners and propriety. Her lips part and his eyes flicker briefly to them.

Then he kisses her again. Without thinking, without asking permission, his lips find hers and linger this time.

"Oh, dear," he stammers, blinking and flustered, leaning back so suddenly that Abbie would have lost her balance had she been standing. "Forgive me, Miss Mills, I did not intend—"

"Crane," she cuts him off, but her voice is gentle. "It's all right, you didn't offend me," she says. "Really, it's fine…" she adds, softer.

"I… oh." He seems at a loss for words, which is a new experience for both of them.

Abbie finally smiles a little. Then she reaches out to him, turning as he slowly lifts his arm and wraps it around her, joining the other, pulling her into a tight, reassuring hug.

She exhales heavily and surrenders, letting him hold her. Letting him be the strong one right now.

They sit on the floor, Crane's arms around her back, her head against his shoulder. He's warm and solid and remarkably _present._ Abbie's breathing slows, syncing up with his as the stress and sadness gradually leave her.

Hesitantly, he brings a hand up, stroking her hair once. She sighs, but it is no longer a heavy sigh of despair.

"Miss Mills, shall we clean up the broken glass?" he asks softly, knowing that she is all right.

xXx

"Shit, I hope I didn't get any glass in the soup," Abbie says, switching the burner off under the pot. She shrugs. "Well, this is just the broth, so I'm going to strain it anyway. Hopefully that will take care of things."

Crane wields a broom, meticulously sweeping the kitchen floor while Abbie works on the stovetop, where most of the glass is. She removes the pot and sets it in the sink for the moment.

"God, this sucks," she says.

"Your colloquialisms never cease to puzzle me, Miss Mills," he says behind her. She notices he's sweeping the entire floor, not only the area near the stove. She's not sure if she should be insulted or thankful.

"Well, you know you can ask me anything, right? I might not always be able to answer, though, just to warn you," she says, chuckling a little. "You sometimes pretend to understand when you really don't."

He stops sweeping and stares a moment, caught like a deer in headlights.

"Didn't think I noticed?" she asks, absently reaching over to pick up a large shard of glass without really looking at it. "Shit!" she hisses again, dropping the glass and clutching her thumb.

She reaches for a paper towel and wraps it around her thumb – the right one, of course – and squeezes tightly.

"Let me see," Crane sets his broom aside and walks over.

"As if this day couldn't get any worse," she mutters, her eyes squeezing shut, tears of frustration forming now.

Crane takes her hand and slowly peels the paper towel back to inspect the cut, completely unfazed by the bright red blood soaking into the white of the towel.

Abbie bends her head to look as well, trying to see if it needs stitches.

"Miss Mills, I cannot see with your head in the way," he says quietly, pulling her hand towards him.

"It's _my_ thumb," she protests.

"And I have had basic medical training," he argues.

"So have I," she shoots back.

"Stop arguing and let me see, please," he lifts her hand higher in the air now, so he can look closely at it and she cannot see it at all.

"No fair!" she exclaims and realizes she's laughing.

_He did that on purpose._

"I cannot bear any more of your tears tonight," he says after a beat, almost to himself. He's still looking at her thumb, but his eyes betray him as they move on their own, flitting to her face for the briefest moment. The small confession stops her laughter and does odd things to Abbie's insides.

"I do not think you require stitches, but it needs dressing," he adds, wrapping her thumb in the towel again and pressing just hard enough to staunch the bleeding.

"There are Band-Aids in the bathroom," she whispers, still not recovered from his previous statement. "I'll get them…"

"Sit," he says, guiding her to the table. "I will retrieve these… Band-Aids… and tend your wound."

"They're in the drawer under the sink," she calls after him.

xXx

"Crane?" she calls. _He's taking too long._ "Did you find them?"

She hears some sort of British muttering, but can't make out what he's saying. Clutching the paper towel around her thumb, she stands and heads to the bathroom.

He's standing in there, box of tampons in one hand, single tampon in the other, eyeing them both suspiciously.

_Okay, the ground can swallow me up. Any time now._

"Th- those aren't Band-Aids, Crane," she says, frozen in the doorway.

He finally looks up. "I can see that, but what exactly _are_ they?"

She sighs. She's found that the best way of dealing with conversations of this ilk is to be completely straightforward. "They're for my time of the month. You know, my… female time."

"Ah. _Oh,_" he says, turning a bit pink around the ears. "Um…" His eyes track back to the tampon held aloft in his hand.

"That goes exactly where you might think it would," she says.

"Oh, dear," he says. His voice doesn't betray his level of embarrassment, but his hands do, losing their grip on the box and tampon in flustered mortification.

It tumbles to the floor, tampons spilling out around his feet.

All Abbie can do is laugh.

"I'm glad you find this so amusing, Miss Mills," he says, pouting.

"I'm sorry, you know I don't normally laugh _at_ you, but… man, that was just too funny," she says, laughing again. He's still pouting and still flustered. She can tell because his face is still red.

"Don't worry about it, okay? You were bound to stumble upon them sooner or later, I guess. Now can you help me with my thumb?" She holds her hand up and gently nudges the fallen items to one side, muttering, "I'll get these once I have my hand back." She has a feeling he's not going to want to touch them again.

_At least he didn't unwrap it,_ she thinks, opening the drawer where the first-aid supplies are.

He does a surprisingly good job bandaging her thumb, with only a minor hiccup involving the adhesive backing. He got the first Band-aid stuck to itself before he could apply it to her thumb, but the second one he handled much better.

"Thank you," she says quietly, his warm hand still closed around hers.

"You are most welcome, Miss Mills," he answers softly, holding her gaze for a few seconds. Just long enough for the heat from his hands to travel up her arms and down through her body.

At least she tells herself the heat is from his hands.

"I need to pick those up," she says, looking down at the floor. He releases her hand and she crouches down on the floor, collecting the spilled tampons and putting them back in the box.

To his credit, Crane folds his lanky frame down beside her, helping. Gingerly.

"If you're uncomfortable…" she says, smirking again. _It's still funny._

"I am just fine, thank you," he answers, holding one between his thumb and forefinger as he drops it into the box.

"They're not going to hurt you," she laughs, losing her balance and falling back on her butt.

"Are you all right?" he asks.

It only makes her laugh harder.

He takes the refilled box from her hands and leans across her to return it to the cupboard in which he found it.

Abbie can see he's biting back his own laughter, trying in vain to prevent it from joining hers.

"Crane, there's a whole _world_ of products for women that I'm sure would completely baffle, if not horrify, you," she says, shoving his shoulder lightly, playfully, still chuckling.

She catches him off guard and he loses his balance as well, falling across her in a rather ungentlemanly way, and her laughter starts anew.

"Oof…" he exclaims softly, turning his face towards hers.

They are inches apart, and suddenly nothing is funny anymore.

Unconsciously, Abbie licks her lips. She's forgotten how to breathe confronted with the soft cerulean of his eyes so close.

A moment passes. Then another.

"May I kiss you once again, Miss Mills?" Crane asks, his voice a caress on her skin.

Abbie's heart thumps in her chest as she scrambles for a response. _Yes! Say yes, dummy!_

"If you're going to kiss me, don't you think you should call me Abbie?" she answers softly.

He shifts slightly and lifts his hand, his long fingers gently stroking her cheek a moment before cupping it lightly in his palm. Her face turns unconsciously into his hand, searching for more contact.

"Abbie," he breathes her name just before he brushes his lips across hers, softly testing.

"Ichabod," she sighs almost inaudibly in response, her stomach still fluttering both from his kiss and the sound of her given name on his lips.

Then his lips return to hers, still soft but fully connecting with hers, pressing gently but ardently, making her fingers curl into his shirt until the material is bunched in her fists as she tries to hang onto her sanity.

This is no chaste kiss meant to comfort and reassure. This is a kiss full of desire; the acknowledgement of feelings denied.

His hand tightens around her back as he moves again, shifting so he is no longer over her. In fact, she's somewhat on his lap now. Abbie clings to him, the surprisingly soft prickle of his short beard making her skin tingle.

Just as she's about to part her lips beneath his, he pulls away, breathing heavily.

"Forgive me… Abbie… I… I shouldn't have…" his hand lingers at her cheek a moment, then reluctantly drops it, holding her elbow lightly.

_What? Oh. Eighteenth century morals._ Abbie feels a little overheated and frustrated, but she pushes it down, striving for patience. "Ichabod," she says softly, still in his arms, "it's all right. _More_ than all right. Remember, the world is different now."

He nods, but she knows he still feels he went too far. She doesn't want to push him, but… she still wants more. His kiss was like the first sip of water after years lost in the desert.

It should give her pause, make her examine her feelings for this strange man who was dropped into her life. But she finds she doesn't need to examine her feelings; they've been there for some time. Hovering, just beneath the surface. All she had to do was acknowledge them.

"We're on the bathroom floor," he comments softly, as if they've forgotten where they were. He reaches up and brushes a stray lock of hair from her face.

"So we are," she says. Impulsively, she pecks his lips once, just to see how he'll react.

His eyes widen in surprise, but his arms reflexively tighten around her.

_This has been one hell of a night,_ Abbie thinks, moving from Crane's lap. Somehow he manages to stand first and offers his hand to help her up.

She takes it and does not let go, leading him to the living room to sit on the couch. She sits right in the middle instead of at her usual end.

Crane sits beside her, upright and proper as always. "Miss Mills…" he starts.

"Don't," she stops him, turning to look at him, her hand coming to rest on his knee. "If you're going to apologize again, please don't."

"I… wasn't."

"Liar."

He smiles, just a little, and closes his hand over hers. She takes it as an excuse to scoot a little closer to him. He lifts her hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles softly. "Please, let me clarify. I am sorry I… pressed my suit with you just now. I had not intended for anything more than a simple kiss, I promise you."

She listens, turning her body towards his on the couch.

"I don't want you to feel I am taking advantage of your vulnerable feelings this evening, either."

_Come on Crane, did you _feel_ me kissing you back?_ She says nothing yet, letting him finish.

"But… I'm not sorry I kissed you," he finally says, exhaling heavily. "Not at all, in fact…"

"I'm not sorry you did, either," she says, moving closer still. "And you didn't take advantage of me, _I _promise _you._"

"You keep reminding me that this is a different era," he sighs. "I am trying to learn, to adapt, but in this one area…"

Abbie slides onto his lap, effectively stopping his train of thought. She winds her arms around his neck slowly, deliberately. She doesn't want to startle him. "I know," she whispers. "But do you think you can meet me halfway?" she asks softly, kissing the corner of his mouth.

"I think we can…" he pauses, his eyelids fluttering as she kisses his cheek, her lips warm and soft, "…try to reach some sort of…" she kisses his temple, "…compromise."

Crane's mind is reeling. She's so wonderful. Like no one he's ever met. He knows what he _wants_ and he knows she wants it, too. She's making that quite clear as she continues to place small, soft kisses on his face while her fingers thread through his hair.

But can he adapt to 21st Century morality? _I didn't even kiss Katrina on the lips until we were betrothed._ Conflicted, he groans slightly when her lips brush his ear.

"Ichabod," she says quietly against his cheek, "I'm not making you uncomfortable, am I? Because that's the last thing I want."

"No… I'm… a little overwhelmed, I think," he admits softly, turning his head to nuzzle her cheek with his nose. "I know your behavior is 'normal' for this era," he says, realizing his arms have moved around her small frame without him knowing. "And I know that courtship is quite different now than it was during my first lifetime, but… I don't want you to think I respect you any less by my being too… forward."

"I don't think that at all," she says, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead so she can kiss it.

"I… I've come to realize… well, perhaps 'admit' is a better word… that my feelings for you are very… strong," he says softly, hesitantly. "But above those are feelings of deep admiration and respect." He reaches up and traces her cheek with a fingertip.

Her eyes flutter closed at his touch. "I feel the same," she breathes. "It's like… you're part of me…" She opens her eyes and leans her head against his.

"I am," he answers, "just as you are part of me." He kisses her, softly but briefly. "You are truly a wonder," he whispers.

Abbie smiles and kisses his lips again. "And you are truly one of a kind, Ichabod Crane," she says, lowering her head to rest on his shoulder. "And I mean that in a good way."

"Well, then, thank you. I feel the same about you, Miss Mills. Abbie." His hands slide, holding her closer, tighter.

"And you can be as _forward_ as you like," she says, a small giggle escaping her lips.

"Oh. Um…"

Abbie lifts her head and kisses him again, longer, sucking on his lower lip just a little until he groans softly. "Do you trust me, Ichabod?" she asks, gazing into his blue eyes.

"Implicitly, Lieutenant," he answers immediately. His voice is a little hoarse but his tone suggests that he thought the answer to that question was obvious.

"Then kiss me again," she whispers, rubbing the end of her nose against his. "I'll let you know if you start getting too forward_._"

He pauses a moment. His lips part. He blinks twice. Deciding. Then he leans in and kisses her, letting go of his restraint, mouth immediately open, his tongue seeking hers out. Her fingers tighten in his hair, kissing him back with everything she has.

Crane groans low in his throat and pulls her closer, as close as he can, feeling her breasts pressing against his chest, her hip against his groin.

She feels his hardness growing against her hip and decides to back off.

"Hoo… that was…" she exhales softly, looking into his passion-dazed eyes, knowing hers probably look similar.

"Yes," he agrees, moving her slightly on his lap. "And thank you for stopping," he croaks. _I don't know that I could have done had that kiss continued on much longer. I seem to forget myself with her._

"You're welcome," she answers, brushing his hair away from his face.

"You have beautiful eyes, Abbie," he suddenly says. "Dark as the night sky."

"Yours are as blue as the morning," she whispers, trailing her fingers along his cheek.

"How is your thumb?" he asks, seeing the bandage.

"I don't even notice it now," she answers. _You are far too distracting._

xXx

That night, in bed, Crane holds her even closer. Abbie didn't think that was possible, but somehow he manages it.

"Feels different," she says softly, her back nestled into his chest.

"Different?" Crane asks, lifting his head to look down at her.

She turns her head. "Better," she clarifies.

"Indeed." He lowers his head and she raises hers to receive his soft kiss.

He lifts his head again and she pauses, almost afraid to broach the topic on her mind. "So… you're serious about this? 'Courting' me?" she asks gently.

"Quite serious, Miss Mills," he says formally, defaulting back to his manners. "Matters of the heart are not to be taken lightly."

She reaches a hand up to his cheek. "I'm only asking because, well… I think we need to keep this on the down-low".

"I'm sorry?"

"Um, the guys at the department don't need to know. About this _shift_ in our relationship, I mean."

"Of course not. It is none of their concern," he agrees. She smiles and puts her head back down. He stares at the side of her neck, at the smooth brown skin there. His lips feel drawn to it, but he resists, fearing he'll forget himself again if he indulges. "As you said: what happens in this house, stays in this house."

"Yep," she sighs, settling in against him again, relishing the feel of his arms around her, his form behind her, lean and hard, but comforting nevertheless. _Very comforting._

Crane feels her body relax against his and realizes how exhausted she must be after the day's events.

"Goodnight, Abbie," he whispers, nuzzling her hair.

"Mmm," she mumbles, already mostly asleep.

He gives in then, moving his head to kiss her neck, just once.

"Mmm…" she mumbles again, but this time it sounds completely different.

Crane closes his eyes, the feel and scent of her skin lulling him to sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

The week after Thanksgiving was chaos.

Actually, it was Chaos. Moloch, who had been suspiciously quiet since Halloween, unleashed Chaos on Sleepy Hollow.

Captain Irving nearly lost his mind. So did most of the high-ranking authority figures and officials in town, all succumbing to some form of madness, rendering them incapable of doing their jobs or even living their lives.

Once he recovered, the captain reluctantly let go of his skepticism and decided he'd seen "too much weird shit not to believe Crane's crazy-ass story."

Abbie was glad to finally have his support. Makes her life a whole lot easier.

Finally admitting her feelings for Crane has also made her life easier, at least at home. Work is a little tricky, but since Abbie is accustomed to keeping her emotions under wraps most of the time anyway, she's handling it pretty well.

Crane, on the other hand, had almost slipped once or twice, unthinkingly reaching for her hand or to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear before remembering himself.

As it turns out, Ichabod Crane is a very affectionate man. Every morning he tells Abbie how beautiful she is and every evening he kisses her goodnight at least three times. In fact, he kisses her whenever he gets the opportunity.

Abbie enjoys the attention and affection, but it's a new experience for her. Her relationship with Luke was nothing like this at all. Not after the first week, anyway. He made her feel like she was his possession; a plaything, almost. Crane makes her feel cherished. He appreciates her simply for who she is.

She's also adjusting to fully opening herself up to another person. This is something she's never done before. She came close with Corbin, but that was a completely different kind of relationship. He was her mentor, a father figure. Crane is her partner, her lover.

Well, he will be one day. She hopes.

And that is Crane's biggest struggle within their new relationship. He's observant enough of other people and has seen enough television (and a few movies) now to know what she'll be expecting of him. And it's not that he doesn't _want_ to. He does. Very much. But having relations outside of wedlock was simply _not done_. Not if a man is a gentleman, in any case.

Put simply, physical romance before marriage is out of his comfort zone.

Just as Abbie's openness with him is out of hers.

He ponders this conundrum on the first Saturday afternoon in December. Abbie has gone to visit Jenny, hoping her sister will be more amenable if Abbie paid her a short visit on her home territory (such as it is). Crane is alone in the house, sitting on the couch, iPad in his lap.

_Compromise_ is the word he is mulling over. He agreed to a compromise. She said she wouldn't push him into a physical relationship, and he agreed to endeavor not to be "so 18th century about all this."

Abbie promised she wouldn't shut him out anymore and would trust him. In return, Crane promised he would ask for help or clarification when he didn't understand something instead of just pretending he "got it", hiding behind his male pride.

She did reassure him that he could ask her privately at a later time if he did feel the need to preserve his pride in front of anyone else, like Luke or Captain Irving.

He glances down at the iPad to find the screen has gone black. He sighs. World War II was getting to him, anyway. He sets the iPad aside and flips on the television instead.

It still amazes him how he can hit a button on a device over _here_ and it fires that box over _there_ to life.

Crane presses the _Guide_ button, which brings up the list of all the programs on all the channels. He loves that. Everything delineated and defined in an easy-to-read list.

_Food Network… oh. I've seen that one. Cooking Channel, a good second choice… No, I didn't like that program when I watched it last. Discovery Channel… ugh. Deep sea crab fishing. Too tense._

He quickly learns what most 21st-century people already know: there is very little television worth watching on a Saturday afternoon. He keeps cruising through the list, higher and higher until he finally finds something that catches his interest.

xXx

Abbie hears a strange sound coming from inside her house when she returns from her visit with Jenny. It wasn't a terrible visit, just a bit awkward. Stilted. Full of thinly-veiled remarks about what _exactly_ Abbie and Crane are up to in her house as well as out in the world.

Jenny knows the truth. She just has a difficult time believing _Abbie_ actually believes in what she's doing, despite Abbie's assurances that she fully accepts the reality of demons lurking in the shadows. Abbie hopes Jenny will be able to get past her own hurt to accept the new leaf Abbie has turned.

_Ironic, really,_ Abbie had been thinking as she walked to her door, grocery bag in hand.

Now she stands, hand hovering over the knob, listening.

_Is that Guns 'n' Roses?_ She's fairly certain she can hear Axl Rose's distinctive caterwauling through the door.

_Oh boy._

She takes a deep breath, bites back the grin that wants to spread across her face, and opens the door.

Crane is sitting on the couch, staring at the television, the strains of "Welcome to the Jungle" washing over him.

_Thank God, it's just the music channels from the satellite company, not actual music videos._

She walks in, sets her bag down, and comes up behind Crane, resting her hand on his shoulder. He jumps. He had the volume up so loud, he hadn't heard her come in.

"Oh! Abbie… I…" he scrambles for the remote, turning the volume down.

"You found the music channels, hey?" she asks, bending down to kiss his upturned face. "Hello."

"Good afternoon, my sweet. I've missed you," he says, kissing her a second time, reaching up with his hand to stroke her cheek.

"Me, too," she says, smiling. "Find anything you like?"

"Yes, actually. There was a channel labeled 'Classical' I quite liked…"

"Obviously," she says.

"Indeed. I listened to Mozart. It was marvelous. Then it changed to another composer, one I didn't know. Igor Stravinsky. I found it cacophonous at first, yet I could not make my finger press the button to change the channel. In the end, I decided I did like it."

He continues. "Then I got curious. I listened to something called 'Big Band and Swing' for a while. I enjoyed Miss Ella Fitzgerald and Mr. Frank Sinatra. And I have never heard a clarinet played quite like Mr. Benny Goodman." He cocks his head to the side thoughtfully. "And there was another. Mr. Louis Armstrong. He was quite fascinating."

"Satchmo," Abbie says, smiling. "Jazz is a favorite of mine."

He smiles. "Then I started through the decades. I heard The Beatles, and I learned that's where your Mr. Lennon is from."

Abbie nods, still smiling. She has a very clear picture in her head of him simultaneously listening to the music and doing research on the iPad.

"There were also some interesting vocal groups in the 1960s I found to be very… uplifting… The Supremes and The Temptations I liked very much," he says, nodding.

_Crane's got some soul in him,_ Abbie thinks, smiling. "Motown. Good stuff."

"Oh, and a young man called Mr. Stevie Wonder. Curious name, that."

"Well, he ain't young anymore, and that's not his real last name. A lot of musicians and actors use fake names. They pick a name they think sounds better or will sell more records or movies."

"So what is Mr. Wonder's real name?"

Abbie shrugs. "You'll have to look it up," she smiles.

"I shall. Then I moved on to the 1970s. I did not care much for a lot of the music from that decade," he frowns, and she laughs.

"Disco not your thing?"

"Disco?" he repeats. "Is that what that was?"

"Probably. The Bee Gees, The Village People, Gloria Gaynor, Donna Summer…"

"Yes, I recall seeing a couple of those names," he nods. "The 1980s were just… strange… and I couldn't understand most of what I heard in the 1990s."

Abbie raises her eyebrows and shrugs in a silent _I know._ "So now you're onto Heavy Metal?"

"Not directly. I did listen to Country and Western as well. A lot of which was very sad."

Abbie chuckles again. "A lot of lost love."

"Yes. And there was some talk of tractors as well." He furrows his brow for a moment. "I did rather like Mr. Johnny Cash. He seems to have a very good grasp on the use of metaphor."

"What song?"

"It was called 'I Walk the Line.' He sang of staying true to his lover despite temptation—"

"I know the song," she nods. Somehow his musical preferences aren't coming as too much of a surprise. _Jazz, Motown, Country. Simple things._

"Oh, good. Then I do not need to explain further. I should like to hear more from Mr. Cash…" he trails off, distracted by the song that started a few moments ago.

Abbie looks at the screen. It's not a group with which she can say she's familiar, a band called Rammstein, singing a song called "Du Hast." Well, sort of singing.

Crane is fascinated.

"Is that German?" Abbie asks.

He nods. He listens for a while.

_Of course he can speak German,_ Abbie remembers.

"Essentially, he keeps saying 'You have asked'. 'You have asked me and I have said nothing.'"

"It is pretty repetitive," she agrees.

"'Do you want to be faithful for eternity until death parts you?'" he translates the next part, his face still a puzzled mask as the harsh, heavy music assaults his senses. "This almost sounds like… wedding vows… curious…" he trails off again.

"But doesn't 'nein' mean 'no?'" she asks.

"Yes. That's why it's curious. This is a most perplexing song." He stares at the television a moment. "I like it," he decides, looking up at her, still standing behind the sofa.

"Great," she says, a bit sarcastically. _Ichabod Crane, metalhead._ The song ends (thankfully, for Abbie), and Metallica starts up next. "Hey, you wanted to hear more Johnny Cash?" she asks, gently taking the remote from his hand and turning the volume down some more.

"Yes. Can this be done?" he asks.

"Yep. Let me put this bag in the kitchen and I'll be right back. Grab the iPad," she tells him. She hears him turn the TV off as she sets the grocery bag on the counter and puts the half-gallon of milk she bought in the fridge.

She returns, slipping her shoes off on her way to the couch, and sits beside him, taking the iPad.

"Forgive me; how was your visit with Miss Jenny?" he asks, smiling warmly down at her.

"Fine. I… I'm not ready to discuss it right now. I'll tell you later, I promise," she says, leaning up to kiss his cheek, not wanting him to think she's being evasive.

"Very well," he nods.

"Now," Abbie starts, a little wary of introducing him to the stream-of-consciousness mindfield/time-suck that is YouTube, "this is called YouTube. People post videos on this site so other people can watch them. Tread carefully; there's all kinds of weird shit here." She types "Johnny Cash" into the search window, knowing she doesn't need to tell him what she's doing. He's got the concept of the search window well in hand already, thanks to Wikipedia.

"Here you go," she says, passing it back to him. She also gives him a pair of earbuds and shows him how to use them. "I'm going to make us some dinner. Let me know if you need anything." He nods and she stands, kissing his forehead before heading back to the kitchen to start making dinner. Loaded baked potato soup, perfect for a cold, blustery day like today.

Abbie works on the soup, cutting up and boiling potatoes, frying bacon, and cutting up green onions.

After a bit, she checks on Crane. He's staring at a music video of a very, very old Johnny Cash, singing at a piano, interspersed with clips of his younger self. Tears are pouring down Crane's cheeks.

"Ichabod…" she whispers, moved by his unashamed show of emotion over whatever it is he's hearing. She sits down again, and sees the name of the song he's listening to, something called "Hurt." _Oh, no. I know that song._

Abbie had a roommate in college one year who was into Nine Inch Nails. She's more familiar with their music than she would care to admit. She vaguely remembers hearing something about Johnny Cash having recorded a version of the song "Hurt," but has never heard it.

"Do you know this song?" he asks softly once the song ends, wiping his eyes and pulling the earbuds from his ears.

"Yes, I do," she nods. "Though not his recording of it. It was originally written and performed by a different artist," she says. She thinks about telling him the name of the group, since he would probably like them (he liked Rammstein, so…), but she doesn't elaborate right now. She reaches up and wipes one straggling tear from his cheek, and he turns his face and kisses her palm.

"It was so…" he sighs, unable to find the words.

She pulls him down into her arms and he rests his head on her shoulder, relaxing into her embrace, leaning on her. "I know, Baby, I know," she says, kissing his forehead and holding him comfortingly. "It reminded you of everything you knew, everything that's now lost, all your friends and loved ones who are gone," she whispers. She feels him nod against her neck.

"It was beautiful and poignant and so unbelievably sad," he says, lifting his head. He kisses her lips once, then looks back down at the iPad, noting the collection of suggested videos in front of him. "Is Mr. Cash still alive?"

"No. He probably died shortly after that was filmed, I'm guessing. Look him up," she suggests, smiling.

"I may do that. After I search for videos of Miss Fitzgerald," he says. He looks like he's feeling better now.

"She's dead, too," Abbie sighs. "Also try Billie Holiday."

"Dead?"

"Yep. If you want to see jazz from someone alive, try… oh, Harry Connick, Jr., or… um… Herbie Hancock. Or Wynton or Branford Marsalis. Most of the good ones are dead, though. Jazz isn't as popular as it once was," she says, standing.

"Pity," he says.

"I know. You all right?"

"Yes. Thank you." He reaches out and takes her hand, kissing it again. "Did you call me 'Baby'?" he asks, almost an afterthought, holding her hand to keep her there another moment.

"Um… yes. I think I did," she says. She's not entirely sure if he's happy about this or not, but there is a slightly mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

He smiles. "I thought as much."

"Is… that all right? It's meant as an endearment…"

"Yes, I gathered that," he chuckles. "I did spend the afternoon listening to popular music, after all. I heard a lot of 'Baby's."

"Right," she says, blinking and shaking her head slightly, gathering her thoughts.

"Do not worry, Miss Mills, I liked it. Your calling me 'Baby,' I mean," he says, smiling again and squeezing her hand once before releasing it.

"Oh," she says. Her cheeks grow warm and suddenly, she's feeling like a ridiculous, giddy schoolgirl. _Get a hold of yourself._ "Um… I need to get back to the soup if we expect to eat tonight," she says, heading back.

"Abbie," he calls after her.

"Yeah?" she calls back.

"Who is it that originally recorded that 'Hurt' song? I am curious."

_Of course he is._ "A group called Nine Inch Nails. I think you'll like them."

"Very good," he calls back.

Twelve minutes later, Crane's voice rings out again.

"This song is just preposterous! Surely everyone knows what sort of sound is made by the fox…"

_How the hell did he get there?_ She shakes her head, stirring the soup, waiting for it to thicken. _Never mind. I don't want to know._

xXx

Abbie finally found something that can fill Crane's impressively hollow interior (she's convinced herself he must be mostly hollow inside, because where else would he put all the food he eats?). Her loaded baked potato soup. He had a bowl and a half with two pieces of bread before he quite literally surrendered.

Feeling full and content, they moved to the couch where they cuddled in front of the television, watching people renovate a house on HGTV.

"I have a question," he says after a while.

"Shoot," she answers.

"I noticed that many of the musicians I heard today, particularly the jazz musicians, were, well…"

"Dead?" she guesses.

"Well, yes, but also, um, Black," he says, looking at her as if he's not quite sure he's used the correct term.

She turns. "You can say Black. 'Black' is an acceptable term, remember? Or 'African American.'"

One of the things she did, after their uncomfortable first meeting, was establish correct terminology for him. She did not want him going around using antiquated terms that might be considered offensive.

"Jazz is one of the things Black people in America can claim as their own. Louis Armstrong? No one did what he did before he did it. Even that German heavy metal band Rammstein can trace their roots back to Black American Jazz. There'd be no rock and roll without us."

"Fascinating. I shall have to read up on this."

"Yes, do," she says, "it's a good read." She pauses. "Did you listen to any Rap at all?"

"Oh. Yes. For about two minutes. I could make neither heads nor tails of what I was hearing, so I chose to move on," he says.

"That's another genre invented by Black Americans. Now there are rappers all over the world, in every color. If you want to try listening to some Rap again, let me know. I'll find some that won't be so… jarring for you." _Maybe start him out with some Will Smith. Something clean._

"Yes, I should like to try that again," he nods. "Thank you."

"Anytime," she says, smiling at him. She leans against him again, settling back in. He gives her a squeeze, and they quietly watch TV for the next few minutes.

"Does it bother you at all?" she asks suddenly, sitting up again.

"What?" he asks, mystified.

"The fact that I'm Black. When you first saw me you thought I was an—"

"Emancipated slave, yes," he says with a sigh. "I do regret my words that day, but—"

"I understand, you don't need to explain it again," she interrupts him in turn now, silencing him with a single finger over his lips, which he kisses before she drops. "I didn't bring it up to rub salt in the wound or anything, but it just made me wonder…"

"It was a surprise, yes, the first time I saw you. More of a shock, actually. How can I explain it?" he blinks a couple of times, thinking. "Well, you know I was confused. Out of sorts." She nods. "In my head, it was still 1781. I couldn't even fathom how it was possible I was alive. Then I see you standing there, a Black woman, in _trousers,_ telling me you have the authority to shoot me."

She chuckles a little. "In my defense, I didn't know if you were some sort of dangerous, crazy person or not." She shrugs. "Turned out you weren't dangerous," she adds, smirking at him.

"Ha," he says, "amusing. But, as I said, I did find you lovely, even through my confusion. And, of course, as I got to know you, 'lovely' became 'beautiful,' 'wonderful,' 'intelligent,' 'kind,' 'fascinating…'"

"Stop," she says, giggling, embarrassed at his praise.

He tilts her chin upwards with his index finger and kisses her softly on the lips.

"So, it _doesn't_ bother you?" she asks again.

"No. How you look is a part of who you are, just as how I look is a part of who I am. Our differences are what make us interesting."

She smiles, marveling at how this man from a different era has somehow managed to be more open-minded than some people are in _this_ era.

"Captain Irving is Black," he remarks.

"Yes," she agrees.

"And Detective Morales is… Mexican, yes?"

"Yes."

"His partner Detective Jones is white."

"Three for three so far…" she chuckles, wondering where he's going with this.

"And Lieutenant Brooks was of Asian descent, was he not?"

"Korean," she affirms.

"Ah. To my mind, this is exactly what I was fighting for: people from different backgrounds and upbringings, coming together for a common cause. You all work together to fight injustice and prevent evil from taking over this land."

"Except for Andy," she mutters.

"Quite. But despite that one anomaly, my statement holds true. It's wonderful to experience."

"I wish everyone thought that way."

"Do they not?"

She sighs. "It's a long story. Abolishing slavery did not abolish racism, unfortunately. You may have to do a little more digging in your research, but in both World War I and World War II, Black soldiers were treated very differently than their white comrades both in the war and once they returned home."

"That is most unjust," he says, his brow furrowing thoughtfully.

"Black soldiers were fighting in the name of freedom, something they were not allowed to fully experience at home."

"It boggles the mind that this sort of… legally-sanctioned hypocrisy lasted over hundreds of years…" he says. Abbie can see that this information is quite unsettling to him. He's scowling and his fists are clenched in his lap.

"And it's more than that," she continues, sighing. "This uneven thinking applies to other races as well. Hispanics, Asians, Native Americans. The list goes on."

His frown deepens, and she touches his face softly. "It's improved with time," she says, placing her hand over his fist. It relaxes under her touch. "Have you gotten to the 1960s in your readings yet? Civil rights, Martin Luther King?"

"Not yet," he frowns. "I was just finishing with World War II, incidentally. That… Adolph Hitler person was a demon straight from the deepest bowels of hell," he says, frowning.

"That he was. But the Germans are cool now. They're our friends again. So is Japan. And from what I understand, the German people are horribly embarrassed about that time in their history. And our own government just recently apologized for its treatment of Japanese Americans during World War II."

"Yes, I recall reading about those… internment camps. Reprehensible. In any case, I think I shall have to go back and see what other information I can find on both of these World Wars now," he says, making a mental note.

She squeezes his hand, and he squeezes it back.

He looks down at her, remembering her original question. "So, in short, I am not 'bothered' by our differences. I quite like them, in fact. Rather a lot," he says, leaning over to kiss her again. "We could not be more different, you and I…" he mutters against her lips, slowly pulling her onto his lap, "…but that is what makes our relationship so wonderful." He kisses her deeply now, sweeping his tongue through her mouth. She meets his tongue with hers, her hands pinned between them on his chest. "Balance. Two halves of one whole…"

"Yin and yang," she gasps, and he murmurs his agreement. She doesn't have time to wonder whether or not he knows Eastern philosophy, because she's too busy losing herself in his kisses and trying to free her arms so her hands can rove a little bit.

His hands slide across her back, pulling her closer as he leans back slightly. Abbie frees her hands and slides one around his torso, the other delving into his hair.

"Abbie," he groans, moving his lips to her neck, kissing her soft skin, relishing its texture, its scent.

"Mmm." She tilts her head back, unconsciously pressing her breasts against his chest. She didn't think she would like the feel of his beard against her skin, but it's not as prickly as she thought it would be.

Her fingers thread through his hair, reaching up to pull the tie holding it in place. "Abbie…" he sighs, feeling his hair fall slightly over his face.

"I like it down," she whispers, her fingers gently massaging his scalp to further argue her case.

He groans again, his hands fisting the back of her shirt. She knows he's doing this to prevent them from wandering.

She wouldn't mind if they did wander. But she can't push him. She won't.

His lips return to hers, less ardent, sweeter, softer.

"It's late," she says, sensing the shift.

"We've had a long week," he agrees. She rests her head on his shoulder, inhaling his scent. _We made a good choice with that bodywash._

He stands with her still in his arms, and she squeals in surprise. "Crane!"

"Right. Television," he says, leaning over so she can grab the remote from the arm of the couch.

Laughing, she turns off the TV and drops the remote back on the couch before he carries her to her bedroom and their bed.

Their bed where they still do nothing more than sleep, entwined together.

**A/N: I got a guest review from someone called "Ooh a jellybean" stating that s/he found my fic via Orlando's Twitter. However, I have not been able to find this tweet. So I'm not sure if I didn't see it, if it was there and removed, or if this is just some kind of strange joke. So I'm looking for confirmation, especially because no one else has said anything about it. If anyone knows where this tweet is, please PM me or let me know on Twitter (my name is the same on Twitter as it is here) (and I live tweet during the episodes when I can). Please and thank you!**


	11. Chapter 11

December. The weather has turned cold and biting. Abbie took Crane back to Wal-mart for a heavy coat and scarf.

She'd never seen anyone look quite so dashing in a scarf. And he wears it even without his coat. Abbie finds it distracting.

Currently, Crane is looking particularly fabulous in a form-fitting black sweater and dark grey cargo pants. His hair is free from its usual cord (just the way Abbie likes it), falling slightly over his face as he bends over a particularly heavy volume of God-knows-what.

She is jolted out of the study she is making of her partner (the word "boyfriend" seems silly and inadequate when referring to Crane) one cold morning when Captain Irving came striding down into the archive.

Once Irving accepted the reality of Crane's "situation," he assigned Abbie to full-time Demon Detail. She no longer goes out on calls, instead devoting her time to working on this whole Moloch/Headless Horseman problem. She spends most of her time down here now, her desk upstairs in the station house sitting unoccupied most of the time.

The plus side is she gets to spend all her time with Crane. Sometimes wondering what it would be like to spend a day as his scarf.

"Hey, Captain," Abbie greets, endeavoring to look like she's actually doing something.

He nods at Abbie, then looks to her partner. "Crane. When is your birthday?" Irving asks with absolutely no preamble.

"Captain?" Crane responds, bemused. He looks at Abbie. She just shrugs.

"Birthday, Crane. Date, and year, please."

"Um, four July, 1753," he answers.

Irving taps some notes into his phone. "Thank you," he says, and strides away.

"What on earth was that all about?" Crane asks. He looks at Abbie, who is staring at him from across the table, mouth agape. "Abbie?"

"Your birthday is really the fourth of July?" she asks.

"Yes. I know; it is rather an interesting coincidence…"

"If there's one thing I've learned in these past months, it's there are no coincidences. My birthday is July fourth, too," she says. She thinks a minute. "So, 1753… you said it was 1781 when you, um, died?"

"Yes," he says. "Pitiably young to die, I'm afraid." He frowns.

"Good thing you didn't really die," she smiles. "I was born in 1985. That means we're both 28. So, give or take a couple hundred years, we're exactly the same age."

He reaches his hand across the table and she places hers in it. "You are right, my dear: that is no coincidence," he says, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing her fingers.

Abbie looks at her watch. "Are you hungry? I'll go get us some lunch."

"Yes. I should like one of those chicken sandwiches, if you've no objection," he says.

"From Johnson's? I can do that," she says, standing. He doesn't release her hand, instead holding it tightly and pulling her over.

"You will not be leaving un-kissed," he rumbles, tugging her into his lap.

"Apparently not," she says, chuckling.

He kisses her sweetly but thoroughly, closed-mouthed but still sensual.

_How does he do that?_ Abbie wonders as he lifts his head and smiles down at her. _He makes me more flustered with one kiss than Luke (or any man she's dated) could with his whole body._

"I'll be back soon," she says. He releases her and she stands. He follows suit.

"I shall head to the library for a moment while you're gone," he says. "There is a volume I would like to see if Miss Rita has in her possession."

"Okay." She reaches up and softly touches his cheek. "I'll be back soon."

Abbie heads up through the station, exiting via the lobby.

"Hey, Abbie," the receptionist, Wendy, calls to her as she passes.

"Hey, Wendy, what's up?" she asks.

"That's what I wanted to ask you, actually," she says, smirking. She leans in close. "What's the deal with you and Professor Charming?" she asks softly, her eyes bearing a knowing glint.

"Crane?" Abbie asks, feigning innocence. "He's consulting on a big case that I'm working on."

"And he's living with you," she says, "_and_ if a man looked at me the way he looks at you, I'd have no panties left because they'd have all combusted."

"Wendy!" Abbie exclaims, flushing so hot that she's sure Wendy can see her blush.

"So…?"

_It would figure that one of the only other women in the building would be the first to spot it. I thought we were being discreet…_

"It's… complicated," she hedges.

"Abbie…" Wendy goads.

"Well, it is. Okay, _yes,_ we are… seeing each other in a non-professional way. But… just keep it to yourself, okay? I don't want this spread around the department."

"And by 'the department' you mean Luke," the receptionist says, understanding Abbie's reluctance.

"Mostly, yeah. Not sure how Irving would react either," Abbie answers, frowning.

Wendy nods. "Your secret is safe with me, I promise."

"Thank you. I'm going to get some lunch. Be back soon."

"Okay, thanks," Wendy says. She makes a note on the pad on her desk where she keeps track of the officers' comings and goings.

Abbie is nearly to her car when another voice calls out to her.

"Abbie!"

_Great. What was it Crane said? "This day continues to bear gifts."_ She turns. "Luke."

"Hey, um, how are you? I haven't really gotten a chance to talk to you since you decided to stay, and…"

"Luke, I'm on my way to get lunch," she says, reaching her hand to her car's door handle.

"Can I join you?" he asks, looking hopeful.

_Seriously?_ She sighs. "I'm picking up and bringing back, all right? And I don't think it would be a good idea, anyway."

"Picking up and bringing back… oh. For _him,_" he frowns.

"We're very busy and he doesn't drive," she says.

"Right," he says knowingly, his voice dripping with implication.

"Look, Luke…" she starts and stops. "Screw it. I don't have to explain a damn thing to you." She turns toward her car again.

"Abbie…"

"No."

"I'm sor—"

"No." She sighs and turns toward him again. "We're not doing this. _I'm_ not doing this. There's a reason I didn't come back to you when I decided to stay here," she says. "You know what that reason is, and my feelings haven't changed."

"We can be friends," he tries.

"No, we can't. It doesn't work that way. Everyone thinks it does, but 99% of the time, it doesn't. Now I _am_ very busy and Professor Crane is waiting and hungry. _I'm_ hungry." She turns and opens her car door.

"So just like that, huh?"

"Yes, Luke. I thought you understood. It's over. You need to get a grip on your jealousy and find someone else." She gets in her car.

He gapes at her, at a loss for words.

"Goodbye," Abbie says, closing her car door.

When she returned with their lunches, she was feeling better, but Crane knew she was unhappy about something.

She tells him of her encounter with Luke, assuring him she is okay. "He didn't do anything," she says, "he was just really annoying and wouldn't take a hint. Hell, he didn't even get it when I spelled it out."

Crane scowls, his protective urges telling him to march upstairs and give Detective Morales a stern talking-to, but he knows that would amount to nothing but embarrassment for (and possibly anger from) Abbie.

Sensing his conflict, she opts for distraction, coming around to sit in his lap, where she feeds him a French fry from her own lips, followed by a soft, salty kiss.

"I'm fine. Don't worry about Luke. He'll get over it," she says.

"It is not Detective Morales for whom I am concerned," he says. "I fear his affection for you has not waned and he may act rashly."

"He won't. And if it hasn't _waned,_ that's his problem to deal with." She sighs and leans her head on his shoulder. "Not that I had any doubts, but if I had, today's encounter with him would have effectively erased them. It's like we were having two different conversations." She looks up at him. "That's one of the things I like about you. I know you are actually listening to me when I talk. I appreciate that."

He smiles and kisses her. "I appreciate _you,_ Lieutenant," he says, turning the title into an endearment. "Therefore, I listen."

"Thank you," she says, settling into his lap, their lunches temporarily forgotten. "Wendy knows something's up," she says.

"'Up'?" he asks

"She figured out that our relationship is… not exactly all business."

"Ah. Well. I cannot say I am terribly surprised that she discovered our secret," he sighs.

"Why is that?"

"She is an intuitive woman. It is her job, as a receptionist at a police station, to be observant, is it not?"

"I suppose," Abbie allows.

"Therefore, it is not surprising that Miss Wendy would notice our little liaison," he declares, seemingly satisfied with his analysis.

Abbie chuckles a bit. _We haven't even liaised yet, Crane._ "She promised she wouldn't say anything," she says. She kisses him once and stands. "Your sandwich is getting cold, sorry."

"Not to worry. You are always welcome to interrupt any meal if it means I get to receive your kisses," he says, picking his sandwich up again while she grins stupidly and goes back to her own seat across the table, where her half-eaten taco salad is waiting.

xXx

A week later, Irving calls them up to his office. Abbie's phone extension from her desk has been transferred down into their little lair beneath the station. Unaccustomed to interruptions, Crane jumps every time it rings. Thankfully, it doesn't ring often.

"Captain wants to see us," Abbie says, hanging up.

"Oh dear," Crane says, immediately wondering what catastrophe is about to descend upon them now.

"He didn't sound like there was a problem," she says, tugging his hand. He stands, kisses her small hand, and follows her out and up.

The captain's door is open, but Abbie knocks anyway to be polite. "Hey, what's up?" she asks.

"Come in. Get the door," he says. Crane closes the door behind him and waits to sit until Abbie has seated herself.

"Believe it or not, I actually have good news," Irving says, reaching for a thick envelope with another, smaller envelope sitting on top. "Crane's citizenship papers are in."

"Really?" Abbie asks, surprised. "I didn't even know…"

"Citizenship papers?" Crane asks, cocking his head at the captain.

He rests his hands on the large envelope. "The papers in here state that you're an actual person in the eyes of the government, Crane. Which _also_ means…" he hands him the small envelope, "you can get paid."

"Oh," Crane exclaims softly, a bit overwhelmed. He takes the envelope but does not open it, simply turning it over a few times with his fingers. "Is this why you were asking about my birthdate, Captain?"

Irving nods. "Of course I couldn't tell him 1753," he says.

"1985, I presume?" Crane asks. Irving nods again.

"How did you swing this, Captain?" Abbie asks, intrigued.

"Well, I have an old college buddy who works for INS. I pulled as many strings as I could – including surrendering half of my Mets season tickets to him – and he fast-tracked the case."

"Surely I should have been involved in some way?" Crane says, posing the sentence as a query.

"Well, he did mention you should at least take the citizenship test," Irving says, chuckling. "I told him you could probably _write_ the citizenship test. There's a copy in here, if you're curious." He passes the thick packet over to Crane. "Everything you need is there, actually. Social security card, birth certificate… um, we kind of made one up…"

Crane smirks and pulls the papers out of the package. "Ah," he says, finding the exam. His eyes quickly scan the questions, and he makes small _hmms_ and _huhs_ as he reads the questions. "Honestly," he finally declares, his voice tinged with derision as he files the test back where it was.

Abbie laughs, Crane's one-word assessment speaking volumes.

"So. All of this means you are now an actual American citizen," he pauses, holding his hand up before Crane can voice his vehement protest, "according to the rules of our government today. So, you can… get a drivers' license, um, open a bank account, vote, even get your own place."

"Thank you, Captain," he says, still a bit overwhelmed.

"Open that," Irving nods to the smaller envelope still in Crane's hands.

He opens it and looks at the check. "My word!" he exclaims.

"Yeah, there's some back pay on this one. They all won't be that big," Irving says, grinning.

"But this is from the library, not the police department," Crane notes.

"Yeah, I ran into some roadblocks when I tried to bring you onto the police payroll. So, since you're at the library almost as much as you are here, and it's _really_ more your field of specialty… you _officially_ work at the library."

"I shall have to thank Miss Rita," Crane says, tucking his check back into the envelope.

"You need to go see Miss Rita, actually. She has a few forms for you to sign," Irving says.

"Mills, take—"

"Yes, I'll make sure he gets everything squared away, Captain," Abbie interrupts, standing. Crane notes that her tone is a bit more brusque than usual.

_Curious. She was just laughing a moment ago._

She starts heading for the door before Crane even stands.

"You coming?" she snaps, turning, her hand on the doorknob.

"Um, yes. Thank you, Captain. This means worlds to me," he stands and shakes Irving's hand.

"Yeah, remember that come April 15," Irving replies with a snort.

"What happens on April 15?" Crane asks as he follows Abbie out the door.

She doesn't answer. She keeps walking towards the stairs leading down to the archives. The tunnel leading to the library is on the other side of the archive, so they need to pass through their little Fortress of Solitude first.

He notices Abbie is walking faster than usual. "Lieutenant…" he starts, catching her up quickly on his long legs.

"Miss Mills," he tries again, "are we in haste for a reason, or…?"

"Just want to make sure you have enough time to get everything you need so that you can have your independence," she says coldly. "You know, learn to drive, get your own… place…" Her voice falters on the last word.

She steps into the archive room and keeps walking at pace. Crane quickly closes the door behind him.

"Abbie." His voice is soft and warm and it stops Abbie in her tracks. She's already halfway across the room, facing away from him, shoulders straight, but he knows she's hurting. Hurting and bottling it up again. _She fears I'm going to leave her._

He walks up behind her and places his hands on her shoulders. "Please do not close yourself off from me." He gently tugs her shoulders, turning her to face him. He can see the tears just hovering, waiting for something to push them over the precipice. "Did I give you any indication that I was planning on finding my own residence?" he asks softly.

She looks up at him. _No, that's just my own stupid, dumb-ass brain assuming now that you have a way out, you'll take it, just like everyone else in my life has done._ "No," she whispers.

"Did I not promise I would never leave you?" he asks, even softer now.

"Yes."

He wraps his arms around her, pulling her against his chest. "Then I believe the phrase that would be applicable here is 'chill out.'"

She snorts a laugh despite herself. It comes out a little watery, and she realizes how close to tears she actually was.

"Neither of us would ever get a good night's sleep again," she mumbles against his chest.

"True, but that is not the only reason why I prefer to stay with you," he says, lifting her face so he can see her.

"I… I _like_ taking care of you," she admits. "And all I could think in Irving's office was _he's going to go because he doesn't need me anymore._"

Crane gazes down at her for a moment, his hands resting on her back. He moves them to her waist, then lifts her off her feet. He moves slightly and sets her down on top of a stack of large books on the floor to his right. "There," he declares softly. Her face is much closer to his now.

He gently cups her face in his hands and kisses her once. "Do you not know that I _do_ need you, my love? We are bound together by fate, you and I, but… more than that, my heart is bound to yours. It only beats because it is allowed to be near yours." He takes her hand and places it on his chest, over his heart.

"Oh," she breathes, her fingers curling instinctively into the warmth of his chest. She can feel his heartbeat quicken at her touch, sees his eyes darken as his pupils dilate gazing at her. "I'm sorry," she whispers, unable to find any other words.

"No apology is necessary," he mutters, dropping his head to capture her lips with his, pulling her into a deep, heartfelt kiss that she can feel down to her toes. Her hand stays planted over his heart, but the other snakes around his neck, holding on lest she fall off of her little book perch.

They lose themselves in the kiss, Crane's hands splaying on her back, supporting her as their tongues dance within the warm confines of their mouths. When he finally lifts his head, Abbie feels breathless and a bit woozy.

He pulls her into a hug, tucking his face into her neck.

"I have no desire at all to learn how to pilot an automobile," he says, pressing his lips to the side of her neck.

Abbie laughs then, squeezing him. Her hand comes up to rest on his head, holding him there a little longer, soaking him in.

"Thank you," she says softly.

He tightens his arms around her in reply.

"Come on, Rita's waiting for you," she says after a moment. They unwind from each other and he holds her hand as she hops down from the stack of books. "Then we'll go to the bank and take care of that check." He nods and motions for her to proceed to the opposite door.

As they head to the library, some of Crane's words sink in.

_Did he just tell me he loves me?_ She stops walking.

"Abbie? Is something wrong?" he asks.

"No, sorry, just… thinking," she says, willing her feet to move again.

As she watches him chatting with Rita and signing his W2 form (which he does without a lecture about taxation, thankfully), she has an epiphany.

_I love him. I love him so much it aches inside._

xXx

"Well, that was certainly an… adventure," he says, sitting on the couch, inspecting his newly-minted ID card they had just procured at the DMV. "The Department of Motor Vehicles is nearly as fascinating a place as Wal-mart," he observes.

Abbie laughs. "That's one way of putting it, yes," she calls from the kitchen. She took some boneless, skinless chicken breasts out to thaw that morning and is about to wind strips of bacon around them and place them on a sheet to bake for dinner.

Crane continues pondering his new brown leather wallet, looking again at the crisp bills he acquired at the bank. "How does one earn the right to have one's image placed on currency?" he asks.

"Most of them were presidents," Abbie called back. "Your buddy Washington is on the one dollar bill."

"Yes, I see. Pity, actually. He deserves a higher denomination, I think."

Abbie steps out from the kitchen. "Well, think about it this way: the one dollar bill is probably the most commonly-possessed and widely-circulated bill. So there's more of him around than Lincoln or Jackson."

"Hmm," he says, seemingly mollified.

"Did you know Benjamin Franklin? He's on the hundred. Was never president, but somehow landed the hundred dollar bill," she says.

"I met Mr. Franklin once or twice, yes. Brilliant fellow, but a trifle arrogant, I found."

Abbie snorts quietly to herself as she returns to the kitchen. _Don't know anyone like that around here,_ she thinks fondly.

"I do look forward to using this plastic card," he says. Apparently he doesn't want to discuss Ben Franklin any further.

It's a debit card, not a credit card. Abbie didn't think he was quite ready for a credit card just yet. Thankfully, he completely grasped the concept of the debit card.

"They are very convenient, yes," Abbie says, returning to the living room. "Chicken's in."

"Good. I am quite hungry." He pauses for a moment. "Should we not have gone out to celebrate my newly-acquired personhood? I would very much like to pay for your dinner for a change," he says, his impish smirk turning into a small frown, disappointed that he didn't think of it sooner.

Abbie cuddles beside him. "We can go out this weekend," she says.

"I would also like to reimburse you for the clothing you purchased for me," he says.

"You don't have to," she waves him off.

"No, I do," he says, looking earnestly down at her.

"It's really—"

"Abbie, please do not argue," he says, kissing her. "I would like to pay you back for my things."

She sighs. She wants to argue, to insist she doesn't need the money and he doesn't need to feel _beholden_ to her or whatever silly male pride emotion he's currently experiencing.

However, she knows she _does_ need the money (the Kohl's bill came just last week and she's been avoiding it) and he's not offering to pay her back out of any sense of obligation.

So she doesn't argue.

"Okay," she says quietly. "Thank you."

"Do let me know the amount at your earliest convenience," he says, kissing her forehead.

"The Superman pants are on me, though," she says, sitting up and looking at him. "Those were a gift."

"If you insist," he says, smiling.

xXx

Not surprisingly, Crane is in a fairly jovial mood this evening. They're watching a program about the Great Barrier Reef on Animal Planet, and he is completely fascinated, pointing excitedly at the screen when he sees something particularly interesting, marveling at how they were able to film under water.

Abbie loves watching him like this, watching him drink everything in, relaxed and happy. They don't get many opportunities for relaxed and happy.

She excuses herself to refill her water glass during a commercial break. "Would you like anything? I can make you some tea," she calls.

"No thank you, darling," he calls back. She smiles at his endearment, at his easy affection.

Abbie returns to the living room to Sarah McLachlan singing "Angel" on the television over shot after shot of the most pathetic looking dogs in cages.

She sits beside Crane again and looks over at him. He's staring at the images on the screen, his face forlorn. He turns to look at her.

"Miss Mills, can we not get a dog?"

_Oh boy._ "Um, now is probably not the best time to be getting a dog," she says, taking his hand between hers. "What with trying to avert the apocalypse and everything."

"But these poor creatures…" he sighs, gesturing at the television.

"I know, it's heartbreaking," she agrees. "This commercial always makes me sad, too." She picks up his hand and kisses his fingers. "I didn't realize you were an animal lover," she says.

"We had many loyal and intelligent canines in the war," he explains. "Better soldiers than some of the men. General Washington had a deep affection for the animals, in fact. He bred foxhounds prior to the war."

"Really?"

He nods. "His favorite hound was called 'Sweet Lips,'" he says, his own lips tugging into a wry smile.

"You're making that up!" Abbie laughs.

"I would never!" he huffs. "She was an excellent dog, in fact."

"She would have to be, with a name like that," she says, still chuckling.

He smirks down at her. "That moniker could be applied to you as well," he says, leaning down to kiss her. "Sweet Lips," he rumbles, brushing his lips softly over hers.

"You are _not_ naming me… after a _dog,_" she sternly says between his kisses, stubbornly holding on to reason for one more moment.

"Very well, my heart," he mutters against her lips.

Abbie's heart goes _thump_ at his words, reason checks out, and she kisses him with renewed ardor, pulling him down over her on the couch and he follows willingly. Eagerly.

Groaning low in his throat, their tongues glide deliciously against one another as her hands slide around his slender but broad shoulders. One of his hands is pinned between her back and the couch, and the other is at her waist, clutching her shirt in his fist.

_Just move your hand where you want it, Crane,_ she thinks, her mind drifting back to that morning weeks ago when she awoke with his hand on her breast. Neither of them acknowledged it, of course, and she sometimes wonders if she dreamt it.

"Abbie," he breathes, kissing down her neck.

"Ichabod," she answers, moving one of her hands down from his shoulders, splaying on his back as she arches beneath him slightly, gently encouraging him.

He opens his mouth against her neck, sucking at her skin, even running his tongue down the length of it. The slick wetness of his tongue combined with the soft-coarse tickle of his beard makes her moan and clutch his head with one hand.

His fingers release her shirt for a second, then curl back into the soft cotton again.

"Ichabod," Abbie whispers, "let go. It's all right, Baby."

"Abbie?" he asks lifting his head. She moves her hand from his back and places it over his hand at her waist, gently prying his fingers loose. He gazes down into her eyes for a moment and sees nothing but love and trust reflected back at him.

He claims her lips again, shifting his body slightly to the side, his hand now flat on her ribcage.

She threads her fingers into his hair, her other hand flung uselessly over her head while they kiss. While Crane makes his decision.

He nibbles and sucks her lower lip. His hand shifts a fraction of an inch higher. He kisses her deeply, hungrily. His thumb brushes the bottom of her breast.

Then he grows bolder and moves his entire hand over the soft mound. Abbie makes a soft whimpering noise as he kisses her, arching her back again, pushing her breast more firmly into his palm.

"Oh," he grunts, tearing his lips away for just a second. He clearly remembers the shape and feel of her from that one accidental touch on a morning that now seems an eternity ago.

Abbie can feel his arousal against her thigh and it takes all of her willpower not to press against it; not to move her hand and feel the shape of him through his pants.

His fingers are growing bolder still as they familiarize themselves with her, cupping, squeezing, stroking. His thumb grazes her nipple and she moans. So he does it again, toying with the pebble-hard nub through the material of her shirt.

He kisses over to her ear now, gently taking her small earlobe into his mouth, nipping it lightly with his teeth, his hand still caressing her breast.

Then he moves his hand away, and Abbie cannot stop the disappointed sound that escapes her lips.

Crane lifts his head. Abbie opens her eyes to look at him. His parted lips are swollen and pink and his eyes are more black than blue. He kisses her once more, briefly. "We should go to bed," he says hoarsely.

And, with that, Abbie knows they're done. He's gone as far as he will allow himself tonight. The sentence "we should go to bed" does not mean _go to bed, nudge nudge, wink wink,_ to Ichabod Crane. It means sleep.

"Okay," she nods. "You all right?" she asks, sitting up as he slides carefully off of her.

"Yes, thank you," he says. "You are too wonderful," he adds, smiling a little.

"So are you," she smiles, reaching for the remote and turning off the TV. She stands and smirks at him, unable to help herself. "And now the next time you wake up with your hand on my breast I won't have to pretend I'm asleep."

"What? You… Miss Mills…" he sputters, watching her walk away. "Abbie?"

xXx

Crane lies in bed, waiting for Abbie to finish her nightly ablutions, pondering their activity this evening. _I crossed another line I never would have dreamed of crossing. Yet she assured me it was "all right."_

_ I did rather enjoy it, as did she. And truly, I do become a trifle unraveled whenever she calls me "Baby." Curious._

_ Nevertheless, I had to stop myself before I plunged my hand beneath her shirt to feel her skin beneath my palm. If not only for propriety, but also for my own preservation. I fear I would have been unmanned had I followed my baser urges._

And this is precisely why Crane established the unspoken rule that they only engage in romantic activities on the couch. He's afraid if they started fooling around in the bed, he wouldn't be able to stop himself.

The soft _click_ of the door alerts Crane to Abbie's presence. He hadn't even heard her return.

"You're lost in thought again," she says, slipping beneath the covers, lying facing him.

"You read me well," he sighs, pulling her into his arms.

"Care to share?"

He shrugs. "Just pondering the mysteries of love," he says casually.

_Love. There it is again._ Abbie looks up at him. "Ichabod, may I ask you something?"

"Of course. Always."

"When did you realize your feelings for me were… what's the word you used? Strong?"

"Ah. I believe it was when you gave me the box for Katrina's handkerchief," he says.

"Wow, you knew that pretty quickly," she says. "Though I don't know why I'm surprised," she adds, muttering.

He chuckles and smiles. "I believe they were there for some time, actually. Of course I had been denying them up until that point."

"Because of Katrina," she says.

"Because of Katrina," he repeats, confirming her theory.

"Me too," she admits.

"Oh? Do tell," he prods, curious.

She sighs, having expected this. "Honestly, it came to light the morning I woke with your hand on my…" she looks down.

He clears his throat. "Yes."

"My body sometimes knows before my brain catches on," she explains. "I mean, I have always found you attractive, I'm sure you know this already. But when you gathered your wits and moved your hand away… I wanted you to put it back."

He blinks in surprise down at her.

"Like you said, of course I denied it. I squashed it right down. I would not allow myself to have feelings for a married man, even one who's wife was trapped in purgatory. You were off limits."

"That is because you are an honorable woman," he says, kissing her forehead.

"That is because I saw too many homes wrecked by selfish people who believed the grass was greener on the other side of the fence," she mutters, frowning.

"_And_ because you are an honorable woman," he repeats. "And I do understand the meaning of your quaint turn of phrase, before you ask."

She laughs. "Good." She cuddles against him, nestling her head into his shoulder. "Then on Thanksgiving…"

"Yes," he says, understanding. She doesn't need to explain further. "That is when I fully gave in as well. As I'm sure you know."

"I kind of had an idea, yeah," she says, dropping her head back down. Something's been eating at the back of her brain. Another elephant in the room, a tiny one this time, but if she doesn't ask, he'll grow as big as his pink predecessor. "Ichabod, may I ask you another something?"

"Certainly," he answers immediately.

She sits up a bit, leaning on her elbow. "Do you know what a 'rebound' is?"

"Well, from the word etymology, the prefix 're-' means to do something again, and 'bound' means to leap or jump," he says.

It's pretty much the answer she was expecting.

"We have a… a term now. 'Rebound girl.' Or boy, I guess, depending on the situation. I… I just can't help but wonder… since it's only been about six weeks since Katrina died…"

"Ah. Oh." He frowns, understanding. "You are concerned that my affection for you is merely me projecting my feelings for Katrina onto you because you are the… um…"

"Next girl in line," Abbie finishes. She scoots away slightly. He pulls her back.

"Abbie," he says, taking her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger and tilting her head down to look at him. "What can I say to assure you this is not the case? As I said, the feelings were already there before Katrina was gone. I cannot explain it in any rational or logical way."

"I believe you," she whispers, spellbound by his eyes, his voice.

"Abigail, believe me when I say that what I feel for you is… stronger… _deeper_… than what I felt for Katrina. I do not fully understand it myself. I did love her, very much. Even if there was an additional motive in our marriage." He frowns a little now, and Abbie realizes he's still struggling a little with being Katrina's kind-of pawn.

"You wouldn't have married her if you didn't love her," she says.

He nods and pulls her back down against his chest. "You, Miss Mills, _do_ something to me."

"I _do something_ to you?" she asks, tilting her head to give him a puzzled look.

"Something about you. It speaks to me, on a very basic level. A… primal level, if you will. When I said we were two halves of one whole, I meant it. And I don't mean… physical romance, either. Though, I will say that I was never this openly affectionate with Katrina, even when we were married."

"Oh," Abbie says, dumbly. "You weren't?"

"No. I was a devoted, loving husband, but with you…" He pauses. "Do you know how difficult it is for me to not kiss you every moment I am with you?" he suddenly blurts.

"What?" Abbie asks, surprised.

"It is a new experience for me, I promise you," he says. Then he kisses her forehead. "As I said: you do something to me."

"You do something to me, too, Ichabod," she answers. "You know me better than anyone…" she adds, as if this fact surprises her a bit.

"Better than Sheriff Corbin?" he asks, knowing how close she was to her mentor.

She nods against his shoulder. "He knew me well, but… I… you're the first person who I've completely opened myself up to," she says. "I never fell apart in front of Corbin like I did on Thanksgiving with you. I never would have allowed it."

He holds her tightly, kissing her hair.

"So, I'm not your rebound girl?" she asks, needing final confirmation.

"Decidedly not," he declares. "In many ways, I am a different man in this life than I was in my previous life. I am still very much myself, but… the man I am today needs _you,_ Abbie."

"Thank you," she whispers, angling her head up to kiss his neck.

His eyes close involuntarily at the feel of her lush lips against his skin. "Abbie…" he sighs a mild warning.

"I know, sorry," she says, tucking her head back down and wrapping her arm around his chest. He's never outwardly stated it, but she knows his rule and respects it. Frustrating though it is.

"I'm sorry, too," he whispers, letting his own frustration show a little.

"I hope you don't think badly of me for…" she stops. _For wanting you. For craving the feel of your skin against mine._

"I could never think badly of you," he says, his voice soft.

"I'm not a… wanton woman," she says, trying to find words he'll understand. _Ho_ won't suffice here. "It's not about the actual _act,_ Ichabod. I, um, want you because I… I feel strongly for you. Some people just drop into bed with whoever is available because it feels good. I'm not like that. It has to mean something." She tucks her head into his neck, hiding. "With you, it will mean everything," she admits softly.

"I know," he says, reaching up to touch her cheek, to gently draw her face out of his neck. "I do understand," he says quietly. He rubs small circles on her back, deep in thought for several minutes.

"Would you like to know what it was I whispered to Katrina's grave?" he finally asks.

"Only if you want to tell me," she answers, looking up at him again, confused as to where his thoughts are now.

"I said, 'Miss Mills will look after me, and I, her. She is dearer to me than I could have imagined.'"

_Oh. That's where his thoughts are._ "You said that to _Katrina's_ grave?"

"Yes. And I was not telling her anything she did not already know."

"Oh my God, she did…" Abbie says. The memory of Katrina's voice in her head on Halloween night is still quite fresh. He looks at her, puzzled. "Halloween. She… spoke to me. In my head."

"Did she, now?" he asks, interested.

"Like, telepathically. It was pretty freaky. She said, 'I know you will look after him. Love him as he does you.' I was too shocked to fully comprehend the meaning of her words at the time, but… well, the word 'love' can be defined many different ways…" she trails off, unsure if this is the time for this conversation.

She knows she loves him. She knows it deep in her bones, and the intensity of it frightens her a little.

"Indeed," he says, lifting up on one elbow to gaze down at her. "But I think we both know…" he pauses, lifting her hand to his lips, where he kisses her palm softly, his tongue just touching her skin. "Grace Abigail Mills, I do love you. More than I can express with mere words," he says softly, pressing her hand to his cheek, where her fingers reflexively curl into the softness of his beard.

Abbie knew this already as certainly as she knows that she loves him, but hearing him actually say it takes her breath away. She gasps lightly and throws her arms around his neck, pulling him down and holding him tightly.

"I love you, too, Ichabod. So much… more than I thought was possible…" she whispers, her lips brushing his ear.

"I know," he whispers, and she understands he's not saying he knows she loves him, but he knows the intensity of feeling she's experiencing, because he feels it, too.

She still holds him, basking in him.

Feeling whole.

For the first time in her life.


End file.
